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DR.  HOLMES'S    BOSTON 


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Dr.  Holmes  starting  on  his  Morning  Walk  in  November,  1893 


th-v^sGu^  Ul 


DR.    HOLMES'S    BOSTON 


EDITED    BY 


CAROLINE   TICKNOR 


A 


WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS 


BOSTON    AND   NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON    MIFFLIN    COMPANY 

MDCCCCXV 


LlBJUKjr 

HILL.  Mass 


BOSTON  COLLEGE  LIBRAR^ 
CHESTNUT  HILL,  MASS, 


F 

7^=37 


COPYRIGHT,  I9IS1   BY  HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN    COMPANY 


ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


Published  October  iqijj 


PREFACE 

Dr.  Holmes  was  in  truth  the  poet-laureate  of 
Boston.  He  early  won  the  laurels  which  were  placed 
on  his  brow  by  his  appreciative  fellow-citizens,  and 
these  he  wore  triumphantly  until  the  end.  And  in 
turn  he  crowned  Boston  with  literary  offerings  such 
as  no  other  citizen  has  bestowed  in  like  measure. 
The  spirit  of  New  England  has  doubtless  been  pre- 
sented in  prose  and  verse  by  other  sons  and  daugh- 
ters, but  no  one  else  has  given  us  so  much  of  Boston 
from  the  Bostonian  point  of  view. 

Except  for  a  brief  interim  Dr.  Holmes  passed  all 
of  his  years  in  Boston,  "tethered,"  it  has  been  said, 
close  to  the  State  House,  whose  gilded  dome  he  has 
immortalized  in  literature.  All  of  his  intimates  lived 
within  a  few  miles  of  him,  and  his  useful  activities 
were  confined  to  his  own  community.  Unlike  so 
many  prominent  men  of  letters,  he  was  in  no  way 
connected  with  diplomatic  or  political  affairs;  he 
held  no  public  office,  and  his  cheerful,  useful  career 
progressed  in  even,  tranquil  measures  "in  his  own 
place."  Seated  in  honor  at  the  head  of  his  Boston 

[v] 


PREFACE 

breakfast-table,  the  Autocrat  looked  out  upon  the 
broad  expansive  universe  and  in  inimitable  lan- 
guage discoursed  upon  its  problems,  pointed  out, 
with  a  roguish  finger,  its  eccentricities,  touched 
gently  upon  its  sorrows,  and  with  his  flow  of  wit  and 
wisdom  enlivened  and  instructed  the  minds  and 
spirits  of  the  ever-widening  circle  of  his  table  com- 
panions. 

Dr.  Holmes's  Boston  is  the  Boston  of  the  entire 
nineteenth  century,  barring  its  opening  and  clos- 
ing decades,  and  in  his  varied  disquisitions  he  has 
reflected  its  characteristics,  changes,  and  gradual 
expansion.  His  Boston  was  not  merely  a  place,  it 
was  also  a  very  individual  "state-of-mind,"  and  the 
immortal  Autocrat  not  only  voiced  that  mental  at- 
titude, but  also  did  much  to  influence  its  trend  and 
shape  its  course.  Holmes  was,  no  doubt,  to  some 
extent,  what  Boston  made  him,  and  Boston  to-day 
bears  the  vivid  imprint  left  by  the  personality  of 
him  who  christened  it  the  "Hub." 

"Surely  this  is  the  ideal  civic  bard,"  exclaimed 
Edmund  Clarence  Stedman,  "who  at  the  outset 
boasted  of  his  town,  — 

"  The  threefold  hill  shall  be 
The  home  of  art,  the  nurse  of  liberty,  — 

[  vi] 


PREFACE 

"  and  who  has  celebrated  her  every  effort,  in  peace 
or  war,  to  make  good  the  boast.  He  is  an  essential 
part  of  Boston,  like  the  crier  who  becomes  so  identi- 
fied with  a  court  that  it  seems  as  if  Justice  must 
change  quarters  when  he  is  gone.  The  Boston  of 
Holmes,  distinct  as  his  own  personality,  certainly 
must  go  with  him.  Much  will  become  new  when  old 
things  pass  away  with  the  generation  of  a  wit  who 
made  a  jest  that  his  State  House  was  the  hub  of  the 
solar  system,  and  in  his  heart  believed  it.  The  time 
is  ended  when  we  can  be  so  local;  this  civic  faith 
was  born  before  the  age  of  steam,  and  cannot  out- 
last, save  as  a  tradition,  the  advent  of  electric 
motors  and  octuple  sheets.  Towns  must  lose  their 
individuality,  even  as  men,  —  who  yearly  differ 
less  from  one  another.  Yet  the  provincialism  of 
Boston  has  been  its  charm,  and  its  citizens,  striving 
to  be  cosmopolitan,  in  time  may  repent  the  efface- 
ment  of  their  birth-mark." 

The  following  compilation  aims  to  present  the 
"Boston  of  Holmes,"  as  set  forth  by  himself.  The 
many  passages  dealing  with  this  his  favorite  topic 
have  been  gleaned  from  his  entire  works  and  have 
been  fitted  together  in  chronological  order.  Thus 
the  Boston  flavor,  which  permeates  the  Doctor's 

[  vii] 


PREFACE 

work  throughout,  is  now  for  the  first  time  presented 
in  concentrated  form.  His  scattered  reflections  and 
picturesque  descriptions,  when  pieced  together, 
furnish  an  almost  consecutive  story  of  nineteenth- 
century  Boston.  And  with  this  revelation  of  "Dr. 
Holmes's  Boston"  is  bound  up  a  characteristic 
picture  of  "Boston's  Dr.  Holmes,"  for,  though  it  is 
at  best  a  fragmentary  piece  of  work,  its  autobio- 
graphical interest  goes  far  toward  proving  the 
truth  of  the  saying  attributed  to  the  wise  Doctor, 
that  "  an  autobiography  is  what  a  biography  ought 
to  be." 


CONTENTS 

I.  Childhood  and  College  Days         ...  1 

II.   Habits  and  Habitations       ....  29 

III.  Boston  in  War  Times 47 

IV.  The  Coliseum  and  the  Boston  Fire           .  67 
V.   Boston  versus  England 91 

VI.  "The  Hub" 109 

VII.  Boston  the  Lecture  Cradle           .        .  .  129 

VIII.  Boston  the  Bookish 151 

IX.  Boston  Elms  and  the  Long  Path  .        .  .  169 

X.  Farewell,  Boston 189 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Dr.  Holmes  starting  on  his  Morning  Walk  in  No- 
vember, 1893 Frontispiece 

He  is  just  leaving  his  house  at  296  Beacon  Street.  / 

The  State-House  Dome Title-Page 

"Boston  State  House  is  the  hub  of  the  solar  system.  You  v^ 
could  n't  pry  that  out  of  a  Boston  man  if  you  had  the  tire  of  all 
creation  straightened  out  for  a  crowbar."  The  State  House  was 
built  by  Charles  Bulfinch,  architect,  in  1795-98.  The  dome  was 
at  first  entirely  of  wood;  it  was  covered  with  copper  in  1802  and 
was  first  gilded  in  1874.  The  present  cupola,  a  reproduction  of 
the  original  one,  was  built  in  1897.  The  one  shown  in  the  picture 
was  built  in  1859. 

From  the  collection  in  the  Boston  Public  Library. 

The  Gambrel-roofed  House       .       .       .       .'  .      6 

Dr.  Holmes's  birthplace  in  Cambridge.  Built  in  1730;  torn 
down  after  the  death  of  the  Doctor's  mother  in  1862.  It  was  Gen- 
eral Ward's  headquarters  in  the  Revolution,  and  General  Warren 
slept  there  before  the  Battle  of  Bunker  Hill. 

Old  Latin  School,  Bedford  Street,  1860     ...     20 

Built  in  1844   and  torn  down  in  1879.     The  famous  teacher 
Francis  Gardner  was  head-master  here  for  many  years,  and  here 
Phillips  Brooks  taught  immediately  after  leaving  college. 
From  the  collection  in  the  Boston  Public  Library. 

View  from  the  State  House  looking  West,  showing 
the  Back  Bat  before  it  was  filled  in  .       .       .38 

The  filling  began  in  1857. 

From  the  collection  of  Mr.  Bernard  P.  Verne. 

[xi  ] 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Summer  Street  in  1846,  showing  Trinity  Church, 
with  Park  Street  Steeple  in  the  Distance        .     42 

From  a  water-color  drawing  by  Sarah  Hodges  Swan  after  a 
painting  by  N.  Vautin.  The  painting  was  made  from  a  pencil 
sketch  by  Sarah  Hodges  in  1846.  The  water-color  is  in  the  pos- 
session of  Dr.  William  Donnison  Swan,  of  Cambridge. 

Beacon  Street  in  Dr.  Holmes's  Time  .       .       .       .44 

The  square  house  on  the  corner  of  Walnut  Street,  the  second 
street  down,  is  the  old  Phillips  house,  where  the  abolitionist  Wen- 
dell Phillips  was  born. 

From  the  collection  in  the  Boston  Public  Library. 

Colonnade  Row,  Tremont    Street,    opposite    the 
Common,  in  1860 50 

From  the  collection  in  the  Boston  Public  Library. 

Daniel  Webster's  House,  at  the  corner  of  High 
and  Summer  Streets .      .    54 

Summer  Street  at  this  time  was  one  of  the  finest  residential 
streets  of  Boston. 

West  Street  in  1860,  looking  towards  Bedford 
Street 60 

On  the  left  is  a  glimpse  of  the  Washington  Gardens  at  the  cor- 
ner of  Tremont  Street.  The  opposite  corner  was  occupied  by  the 
Amos  Lawrence  house. 

From  the  collection  in  the  Boston  Public  Library. 

The  Coliseum  of  the  Peace  Jubilee  of  1869   .      .     70 

The  street-corner  shown  in  the  foreground  is  that  of  Boylston 
Street  (left)  and  Clarendon  Street  (right).  The  site  of  the  Coli- 
seum is  now  occupied  by  Copley  Square,  Huntington  Avenue, 
Trinity  Church,  etc. 

From  the  collection  of  Mr.  Bernard  P.  Verne. 

The  Boston  Fire  of  November  9-10,  1872  ...     80 

The  view  extends  from  the  post  office  (then  in  process  of  con- 
struction) on  the  left  to  Summer  Street  on  the  right. 
From  the  collection  in  the  Boston  Public  Library. 

[  xii    ] 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

State  Street,  from  an  Engraving  made  about  1842    96 

The  lion  and  unicorn  of  Colonial  days  have  since  been  restored 
in  place  of  the  ornamental  scrolls  at  the  corners  of  the  Old  State 
House. 

From  the  collection  in  the  Boston  Public  Library. 

Park  Street  Church 100 

Built  in  1809.   From  the  quality  of  the  theology  preached  here, 
this  came  to  be  known  as  "Brimstone  Corner." 
From  the  collection  of  Mr.  Bernard  P.  Verne. 

Boston  from  the  Public  Garden,  about  1880  .       .  104 

The  spire  seen  near  the  State  House  is  that  of  the  First  Baptist 
Church  on  Somerset  Street,  torn  down  in  1882. 
From  the  collection  in  the  Boston  Public  Library. 

The  Frog  Pond 114 

The  introduction  of  Boston's  first  city  water  service  was  cele- 
brated here,  October  25, 1848.  The  Soldiers'  Monument,  by  Mar- 
tin Milmore,  was  erected  in  1877  in  memory  of  the  soldiers  and 
sailors  killed  in  the  War  for  the  Union. 

From  the  collection  in  the  Boston  Public  Library. 

The  Old  City  Hall,  1858 120 

This  was  formerly  the  Court-House.  It  was  fitted  up  as  the  City 
Hall  in  1840-41.  The  present  building  was  erected  on  the  same 
site  in  1862-65. 

The  Hancock  House,  on  Beacon  Street  next  to 
the  State  House 124 

Built  in  1737  by  Thomas  Hancock  and  later  occupied  by  his 
nephew  John  Hancock.  It  was  torn  down  in  1863. 
From  the  collection  in  the  Boston  Public  Library. 

The  Old  South  Church 136 

Built  in  1729-30.  Joseph  Warren  in  March,  1775,  made  his  fa- 
mous address  here  in  defiance  of  the  threats  of  British  officers,  and 
in  the  same  year  the  church  was  desecrated  by  the  British,  who 
used  it  for  cavalry  drill.  It  has  not  been  used  for  religious  services 

[  xiii  ] 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

since  the  building  of  the  New  Old  South  Church  in  1873-75,  but 
it  is  maintained  for  lectures  and  the  exhibition  of  antiquities  by  a 
fund  raised  to  secure  its  preservation. 

From  the  collection  in  the  Boston  Athenseum. 

The  Beacon  Street  Side  of  the  Public  Garden  in 
1857,   showing  Dr.   Holmes  and  Ralph  Waldo 
Emerson  in  Conversation 142 

From  the  collection  in  the  Boston  Athenaeum. 

Park  Street  from  the  State-House  Grounds  .      .  156 

The  George  Ticknor  house  is  shown  on  the  left. 
From  the  collection  in  the  Boston  Public  Library. 

The  Museum  of  Fine  Arts,  Copley  Square     .       .166 

The  Museum  was  founded  in  1870,  and  the  building  was  com- 
pleted in  1879.  Sturgis  &  Brigham  were  the  architects.  It  was 
torn  down  in  1911,  the  collections  being  removed  to  the  new 
building  farther  out  on  Huntington  Avenue,  and  the  Copley 
Plaza  Hotel  was  erected  on  the  site. 

From  the  collection  in  the  Boston  Athenaeum. 

Tremont    Street    Mall,    now    called    Lafayette 
Mall,  Boston  Common 172 

Showing  the  elms  removed  when  the  subway  was  built. 
From  the  collection  in  the  Boston  Public  Library. 

The  Old  Elm,  Boston  Common         .....  182 

It  was  over  72  feet  high  and  22§  feet  in  circumference  a  foot  from 
the  ground,  and  was  supposed  to  have  antedated  the  founding  of 
Boston.    It  blew  down  in  a  gale,  February  15,  1876.    A  scion, 
now  a  sizable  and  vigorous  tree,  is  growing  on  the  site. 
From  the  collection  in  the  Boston  Public  Library. 

The  Tremont  House,  1886 184 

Built  in  1828-29  and  torn  down  in  1895  to  make  place  for  the 
Tremont  Building,  which  was  erected  the  following  year.  The  Old 
Granary  Burying-Ground  is  seen  on  the  left. 

[  xiv  ] 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

The  Long  Path,  Boston  Common 186 

This  path,  now  known  officially  as  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  Walk, 
runs  from  opposite  Joy  Street  to  the  corner  of  Tremont  and  Boy  ls- 
ton  Streets.  The  view  is  of  the  upper  end,  looking  towards  Bea- 
con Street. 

From  the  collection  in  the  Boston  Athenaeum. 

The  Gardiner  Greene  House,  Pemberton  Square  194 

Built  by  William  Vassall  about  1758.  In  1803  it  came  into  the 
possession  of  Gardiner  Greene,  the  wealthiest  citizen  of  Boston  in 
his  day.  It  appears  in  Cooper's  novel  "Lionel  Lincoln"  as  the 
house  of  Mrs.  Lechmere.  When  it  was  torn  down  in  1835,  the 
famous  gingko,  or  ginkgo,  tree  which  adorned  its  grounds  was 
transplanted  through  the  agency  of  Dr.  Jacob  Bigelow  to  the 
Joy  Street  end  of  the  "Long  Path"  on  Boston  Common.  The 
site  of  the  house  is  now  occupied  by  the  Court-House. 

From  a  painting  by  Pratt  in  1833,  now  in  the  possession  of 
Frederic  Amory,  Esq. 

King's  Chapel,  1860 202 

Built  in  1749-54.   This  was  Dr.  Holmes's  place  of  worship.     He 
occupied  Pew  102  in  the  front  centre  of  the  south  gallery. 
From  the  collection  in  the  Boston  Public  Library. 

The  Old  North  Church,  Salem  Street      .       .       .  208 

Now  called  Christ  Church.  The  view  is  from  Hull  Street  and 
shows  Copps  Hill  Burying-Ground  on  the  left.  The  corner-stone 
was  laid  in  1723.  It  was  in  the  belfry  of  this  church  that  the  lan- 
terns were  hung  that  gave  the  signal  to  Paul  Revere  on  the  night 
of  the  18th  of  April,  1775.  The  church  was  restored  in  1912  under 
the  direction  of  Bishop  William  Lawrence. 

From  the  collection  in  the  Boston  Public  Library. 


DR.    HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

CHAPTER  I 

CHILDHOOD  AND  COLLEGE  DAYS 

1809-1830 


From  the  first  gleam  of  morning  to  the  gray 

Of  peaceful  evening,  lo,  a  life  unrolled ! 

In  woven  pictures  all  its  changes  told, 

Its  lights,  its  shadows,  every  flitting  ray, 

Till  the  long  curtain,  falling,  dims  the  day, 

Steals  from  the  dial's  disk  the  sunlight's  gold, 

And  all  the  graven  hours  grow  dark  and  cold 

When  late  the  glowing  blazes  of  noontide  lay. 

Ah!  the  warm  blood  runs  wild  in  youthful  veins,  — 

Let  me  no  longer  play  with  painted  fire; 

New  songs  for  new-born  days !  I  would  not  tire 

The  listening  ears  that  wait  for  fresher  strains 

In  phrase  new-moulded,  new-forged  rhythmic  chains 

With  plaintive  measures  from  a  worn-out  lyre. 


DK.  HOLMES'S  BOSTON 

CHAPTER   I 

CHILDHOOD  AND  COLLEGE  DAYS 
1809-1830 

I  know  that  it  is  a  hazardous  experiment  to  ad- 
dress myself  again  to  a  public  which  in  days  long 
past  has  given  me  a  generous  welcome.  But  my 
readers  have  been,  and  are,  a  very  faithful  constitu- 
ency. I  think  there  are  many  among  them  who 
would  rather  listen  to  an  old  voice  they  are  used  to 
than  to  a  new  one  of  better  quality,  even  if  the 
"childish  treble"  should  betray  itself  now  and  then 
in  the  tones  of  the  over-tired  organ.  But  there 
must  be  others,  —  I  'm  afraid  many  others,  —  who 
will  exclaim,  "He  has  had  his  day,  and  why  can't 
he  be  content?  We  don't  want  any  literary  reve- 
nants,  superfluous  veterans,  writers  who  have  worn 
out  their  welcome  and  still  insist  on  being  attended 
to.  Give  us  something  fresh,  something  that  be- 
longs to  our  day  and  generation." 

Alas,  alas !  my  friend, —  my  young  friend,  for 
your  hair  is  not  yet  whitened,  —  I  am  afraid  you 

[3  1 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

are  too  nearly  right.  .  .  .  But  suppose  that  a  writer 
who  has  reached  and  passed  the  natural  limit  of 
serviceable  years  feels  that  he  has  some  things 
which  he  would  like  to  say,  and  which  may  have 
an  interest  for  a  limited  class  of  readers,  —  is  he 
not  right  in  trying  his  powers  and  calmly  taking 
the  risk  of  failure? 

I  confess  that  there  is  something  agreeable  to  me 
in  renewing  my  relations  with  the  reading  public. 
Were  it  but  a  single  appearance,  it  would  give  me  a 
pleasant  glimpse  of  the  time  when  I  was  known  as 
a  frequent  literary  visitor.  Many  of  my  readers  — 
if  I  can  lure  any  from  the  pages  of  younger  writers 
—  will  prove  to  be  the  children,  or  the  grandchil- 
dren, of  those  whose  acquaintance  I  made  something 
more  than  a  whole  generation  ago.  I  could  depend 
on  a  kind  welcome  from  my  contemporaries,  —  my 
coevals.  But  where  are  those  contemporaries?  Ay 
de  mi!  as  Carlyle  used  to  exclaim,  —  "Ah,  dear  me," 
as  our  old  women  say,  —  I  look  round  for  them  and 
see  only  their  vacant  places. 

It  will  not  do  for  us  to  boast  about  our  young 
days  and  what  they  had  to  show.  It  is  a  great  deal 

[  4  ] 


CHILDHOOD  AND  COLLEGE  DAYS 

better  to  boast  about  what  they  did  not  show,  and, 
strange  as  it  may  seem,  there  is  a  certain  satisfac- 
tion in  it.  In  these  days  of  electric  lighting,  when 
you  have  only  to  touch  a  button  and  your  parlor  or 
bedroom  is  instantly  flooded  with  light,  it  is  a  pleas- 
ure to  revert  to  the  era  of  the  tinder-box,  the  flint 
and  steel,  and  the  brimstone  match.  It  gives  me  an 
almost  proud  satisfaction  to  tell  how  we  used,  when 
those  implements  were  not  at  hand,  or  not  em- 
ployed, to  light  our  whale-oil  lamp  by  blowing  a 
live  coal  held  against  the  wick,  often  swelling  our 
cheeks  and  reddening  our  faces  until  we  were  on 
the  verge  of  apoplexy.  I  love  to  tell  of  our  stage- 
coach experiences,  of  our  sailing-packet  voyages,  of 
the  semi-barbarous  destitution  of  all  modern  com- 
forts and  conveniences  through  which  we  bravely 
lived  and  came  out  the  estimable  personages  you 
find  us. 

Think  of  it!  All  my  boyish  shooting  was  done 
with  a  flint-lock  gun;  the  percussion  lock  came  to 
me  as  one  of  those  new-fangled  notions  people  had 
just  got  hold  of.  We  ancients  can  make  a  grand 
display  of  minus  quantities  in  our  reminiscences, 
and  the  figures  look  almost  as  well  as  if  they  had 
the  plus  sign  before  them. 

[5  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S  BOSTON 

In  the  last  week  of  August  used  to  fall  Com- 
mencement day  at  Cambridge.  I  remember  that 
week  well,  for  something  happened  to  me  once  at 
that  time,  namely,  I  was  born. 

[This  notable  event  occurred  upon  the  twenty-ninth 
of  August,  1809,  a  year  which  was  productive  of  many 
famous  personages;  Gladstone,  Tennyson,  Darwin,  and 
Abraham  Lincoln  all  first  saw  light  within  this  memora- 
ble twelvemonth. 

In  the  "old  gambrel-roofed  house,"  where  Holmes 
was  born,  lurked  many  historic  memories ;  there  General 
Ward  made  his  headquarters  in  Revolutionary  days; 
its  threshold  was  often  crossed  by  Washington,  and 
General  Warren  slept  there  prior  to  the  battle  of  Bunker 
Hill.  In  this  old  homestead  young  Holmes  dwelt  until 
he  reached  years  of  maturity,  when  after  his  mother's 
death,  it  was  torn  down,  leaving  him  to  deplore  its 
passing  although  he  readily  acknowledged  it  was  "a 
case  of  justifiable  domicide."] 

Our  old  house  is  gone.  I  went  all  over  it,  into 
every  chamber  and  closet,  and  found  a  ghost  in 
each  and  all  of  them,  to  which  I  said  good-by.  I 
have  not  seen  the  level  ground  where  it  stood. 
Be  thankful  that  you  still  keep  your  birthplace. 
This  earth  has  a  homeless  look  to  me  since  mine 
has  disappeared  from  its  face. 

I  remember  saying  something,  in  one  series  of 
papers  published  long  ago,  about  the  experience 

[  6] 


The  Gambr el-roofed  House 


CHILDHOOD   AND   COLLEGE   DAYS 

of  dying  out  of  a  house,  —  of  leaving  it  forever,  as 
the  soul  dies  out  of  the  body.  We  may  die  out  of 
many  houses,  but  the  house  itself  can  die  but  once; 
and  so  real  is  the  life  of  a  house  to  one  who  has 
dwelt  in  it,  more  especially  the  life  of  the  house 
which  held  him  in  dreamy  infancy,  in  restless  boy- 
hood, in  passionate  youth,  —  so  real,  I  say,  is  its 
life,  that  it  seems  as  if  something  like  a  soul  of  it 
must  outlast  its  perishing  fame. 

When  the  chick  first  emerges  from  the  shell,  the 
Creator's  studio  in  which  he  was  organized  and 
shaped,  it  is  a  very  little  world  with  which  he  finds 
himself  in  relation.  First  the  nest,  then  the  hen- 
coop, by  and  by  the  barnyard  with  occasional  pred- 
atory incursions  into  the  neighbor's  garden  — 
and  his  little  universe  has  reached  its  boundaries. 

Just  so  with  my  experience  of  atmospheric  exis- 
tence. The  low  room  of  the  old  house  —  the  little 
patch  called  the  front  yard  —  somewhat  larger 
than  the  Turkish  rug  beneath  my  rocking-chair  — 
the  back  yard  with  its  wood-house,  its  carriage- 
house,  its  barn,  and,  let  me  not  forget  its  pig-sty. 
These  were  the  world  of  my  earliest  experiences. 
But  from  the  western  window  of  the  room  where  I 
was  born  I  could  see  the  vast  expanse  of  the  Com- 

[7] 


DR.  HOLMES'S  BOSTON 
y  mon,  with  the  far-away  "Washington  Elm"  as  its 
central  figure  —  the  immeasurably  distant  hills  of 
the  horizon,  and  the  infinite  of  space  in  which  these 
gigantic  figures  were  projected  —  all  these,  in  un- 
worded  impressions  —  vague  pictures  swimming  by 
each  other  as  the  eyes  rolled  without  aim  —  threw 
the  lights  and  shadows  which  floated  by  them. 
From  this  centre  I  felt  my  way  into  the  creation 
beyond. 

Although  the  spot  of  earth  on  which  I  came  into 
being  was  not  as  largely  endowed  by  nature  as  the 
birthplaces  of  other  children,  there  was  yet  enough 
to  kindle  the  fancy  and  imagination  of  a  child  of 
poetic  tendencies.  My  birth-chamber  and  the 
places  most  familiar  to  my  early  years  looked  out 
to  the  west.  My  sunsets  were  as  beautiful  as  any 
poet  could  ask  for.  Between  my  chamber  and  the 
sunsets  were  hills  covered  with  trees,  from  amid 
which  peeped  out  here  and  there  the  walls  of  a 
summer  mansion,  which  my  imagination  turned 
into  a  palace.  The  elms,  for  which  Cambridge  was 
always  famous,  showed  here  and  there  upon  the 
Common,  not  then  disfigured  by  its  hard  and  pro- 
saic enclosures;  and  full  before  me  waved  the  luxu- 
rient  branches  of  the  "Washington  Elm,"  near 

[8] 


CHILDHOOD  AND  COLLEGE  DAYS 

which  stood  the  handsome  mansion  then  lived  in 
by  Professor  Joseph  McKean,  now  known  as  the 
Fay  House,  and  the  present  seat  of  Radcliffe 
College. 

Know  old  Cambridge?   Hope  you  do.  — 
Born  there?  Don't  say  so!  I  was,  too. 
(Born  in  a  house  with  a  gambrel-roof ,  — 
Standing  still,  if  you  must  have  proof.) 

Nicest  place  that  was  ever  seen, 
Colleges  red  and  Common  green, 
Sidewalks  brownish,  with  trees  between, 
Sweetest  spot  beneath  the  skies, 
When  the  canker-worms  don't  rise,  — 
When  the  dust,  that  sometimes  flies 
Into  your  mouth  and  ears  and  eyes, 
In  a  quiet  slumber  lies, 
Not  in  the  shape  of  unbaked  pies 
Such  as  barefoot  children  prize. 

A  kind  of  harbor  it  seems  to  be, 
Facing  the  flow  of  a  boundless  sea. 
Rows  of  gray  old  Tutors  stand 
Ranged  like  rocks  upon  the  sand; 
Rolling  beneath  them,  soft  and  green, 
Breaks  the  tide  of  bright  sixteen,  — 
One  wave,  two  waves,  three  waves,  four,  — 
Sliding  up  the  sparkling  floor: 
Then  it  ebbs  to  flow  no  more, 
Wandering  off  from  shore  to  shore 
With  its  freight  of  golden  ore! 

[9] 


DR.  HOLMES'S  BOSTON 
My  boyhood  had  a  number  of  real  sensations. 
.  .  .  An  inspiring  scene,  which  I  witnessed  many 
times  in  my  early  years,  was  the  imposing  triumphal 
entry  of  the  Governor  attended  by  a  light-horse 
troop  and  a  band  of  sturdy  truckmen,  on  Com- 
mencement day.  Vague  recollections  of  a  "muster," 
in  which  the  "pomp  and  circumstance  of  glorious 
war"  were  represented  to  my  young  imagination. 
But  my  most  vivid  recollections  are  not  associated 
with  war  but  with  peace.  My  earliest  memory  goes 
back  to  the  Declaration  of  Peace,  signalized  to  me 
by  the  illumination  of  the  College  in  1815.  I  re- 
member well  coming  from  the  Dame  school,  throw- 
ing up  my  "jocky,"  as  the  other  boys  did,  and 
shouting  "Hooraw  for  Amiriky,"  looking  at  the 
blazing  College  windows,  and  revelling  in  the 
thought  that  I  had  permission  to  sit  up  as  long  as 
I  wanted  to.  I  lasted  until  eight  o'clock,  and  then 
struck  my  colors,  and  was  conveyed  by  my  guardian 
and  handmaiden  from  the  brilliant  spectacle  to 
darkness  and  slumber. 

The  social  habits  of  our  people  have  undergone  an 
immense  change  within  the  past  half  century,  largely 
in  consequence  of  the  vast  development  in  the  means 
of  intercourse  between  different  neighborhoods. 

[  10] 


CHILDHOOD  AND  COLLEGE  DAYS 

Commencements,  college  gatherings  of  all  kinds, 
church  assemblages,  school  anniversaries,  town 
centennials,  —  all  possible  occasions  for  getting 
crowds  together  are  made  the  most  of.  "  'T  is  sixty- 
years  since,"  and  a  good  many  years  over,  —  the 
time  to  which  my  memory  extends.  The  great  days 
of  the  year  were,  Election,  —  General  Election  on 
Wednesday,  and  Artillery  Election  on  the  Monday 
following,  at  which  time  lilacs  were  in  bloom  and 
'lection  buns  were  in  order;  Fourth  of  July,  when 
strawberries  were  just  going  out;  and  Commence- 
ment, a  grand  time  of  feasting,  fiddling,  dancing, 
jollity,  not  to  mention  drunkenness  and  fighting, 
on  the  classic  green  at  Cambridge.  This  was  the 
season  of  melons  and  peaches.  That  is  the  way  our 
boyhood  chronicles  events.  It  was  odd  that  the 
literary  festival  should  be  turned  into  a  Donny- 
brook  fair,  but  so  it  was  when  I  was  a  boy,  and  the 
tents  and  the  shows  and  the  crowds  on  the  Common 
were  to  the  promiscuous  many,  the  essential  parts 
of  the  great  occasion.  They  had  been  so  for  genera- 
tions, and  it  was  only  gradually  that  the  Cam- 
bridge Saturnalia  were  replaced  by  the  decencies 
and  solemnities  of  the  present  sober  anniversary. 

Nowadays  our  celebrations  smack  of  the  Sunday 

[11] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

school  more  than  of  the  dancing-hall.  The  aroma  of 
the  punch-bowl  has  given  way  to  the  milder  flavor 
of  lemonade  and  the  cooling  virtues  of  ice-cream. 
A  strawberry  festival  is  about  as  far  as  the  dissipa- 
tion of  our  social  gatherings  ventures.  There  was 
much  that  was  objectionable  in  those  swearing, 
drinking,  fighting  times,  but  they  had  a  certain  ex- 
citement for  us  boys  of  the  years  when  the  century 
was  in  its  teens,  which  comes  back  to  us  not  without 
its  fascinations.  The  days  of  total  abstinence  are 
a  great  improvement  over  those  of  unlicensed 
license,  but  there  was  a  picturesque  element  about 
the  rowdyism  of  our  old  Commencement  days, 
which  had  a  charm  for  the  eye  of  boyhood. 

They  had  not  then  the  dainty  things 
That  commons  now  afford, 
But  succotash  and  hominy 
Were  smoking  on  the  board; 
They  did  not  rattle  round  in  gigs, 
Or  dash  in  long-tailed  blues, 
But  always  on  Commencement  days 
The  tutors  blacked  their  shoes. 

God  bless  the  ancient  Puritans ! 
Their  lot  was  hard  enough 
But  honest  hearts  make  iron  arms, 
And  tender  maids  are  tough; 

[  12] 


CHILDHOOD  AND  COLLEGE  DAYS 

So  love  and  faith  have  formed  and  fed 
Our  true-born  Yankee  stuff, 
And  keep  the  kernel  in  the  shell 
The  British  found  so  rough ! 

The  firing  of  the  great  guns  at  the  Navy -yard  is 
easily  heard  at  the  place  where  I  was  born  and  lived. 
"There  is  a  ship  of  war  come  in,"  they  used  to  say, 
when  they  heard  them.  Of  course,  I  supposed  that 
such  vessels  came  in  unexpectedly,  after  indefinite 
years  of  absence,  —  suddenly  as  falling  stones;  and 
that  the  great  guns  roared  in  their  astonishment 
and  delight  at  the  sight  of  the  old  war-ship  splitting 
the  bay  with  her  cutwater.  Now,  the  sloop-of-war, 
the  Wasp,  Captain  Blakely,  after  gloriously  captur- 
ing the  Reindeer  and  the  Avon,  had  disappeared 
from  the  face  of  the  ocean,  and  was  supposed  to  be 
lost.  But  there  was  no  proof  of  it,  and,  of  course,  for 
a  time,  hopes  were  entertained  that  she  might  be 
heard  from.  Long  after  the  last  real  chance  had 
utterly  vanished,  I  pleased  myself  with  the  fond 
illusion  that  somewhere  on  the  waste  of  waters 
she  was  still  floating,  and  there  were  years  during 
which  I  never  heard  the  sound  of  the  great  gun 
booming  inland  from  the  Navy-yard  without  say- 
ing to  myself,  "The  Wasp  has  come!"  and  almost 

[13] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

thinking  I  could  see  her  as  she  rolled  in,  crumpling 
the  water  before  her,  weather-beaten,  barnacled, 
with  shattered  spars  and  threadbare  canvas,  wel- 
comed by  the  shouts  and  tears  of  thousands.  This 
was  one  of  those  dreams  that  I  nursed  and  never 
told. 

Do  you  know,  dear  reader,  that  I  can  remember 
the  great  September  gale  of  1815,  as  if  it  had  blown 
yesterday?  .  .  .  The  23d  of  September,  1815.  It 
was  an  awful  blow.  Began  from  the  east,  got  round 
to  the  southeast,  at  last  to  the  south,  —  we  have 
had  heavy  blows  from  that  quarter  since  then,  as 
you  suggest  with  your  natural  pleasant  smile.  It 
tore  great  elms  up  by  the  roots  in  the  Boston  Mall, 
in  the  row  Mr.  Paddock  planted  by  the  Granary 
Burial-ground.  What  was  very  suggestive,  the 
English  elms  were  the  chief  sufferers.  The  American 
ones,  slenderer  and  more  yielding,  renewed  the  old 
experience  of  the  willows  by  the  side  of  the  oaks. 

The  wind  caught  up  the  waters  of  the  bay  and  of 
the  river  Charles,  as  mad  shrews  tear  the  hair  from 
each  other's  heads.  The  salt  spray  was  carried  far 
inland,  and  left  its  crystals  on  the  windows  of  farm- 
houses and  villas.    I  have,  besides  more  specific 

[  14  ] 


CHILDHOOD  AND  COLLEGE  DAYS 

recollections,  a  general  remaining  impression  of 
a  mighty  howling,  roaring,  banging,  and  crashing, 
with  much  running  about,  and  loud  screaming  of 
orders  for  sudden  taking  in  of  all  sail  about  the 
premises,  and  battening  down  of  everything  that 
could  flap  or  fly  away.  The  top-railing  of  our  old 
gambrel-roofed  house  could  not  be  taken  in,  and 
it  tried  an  aeronautic  excursion,  as  I  remember. 
Dreadful  stories  came  in  from  scared  people  that 
somehow  managed  to  blow  into  harbor  in  our  man- 
sion. Barns  had  been  unroofed,  "chimbleys"  over- 
thrown, and  there  was  an  awful  story  of  somebody 
taken  up  by  the  wind  and  slammed  against  some- 
thing with  the  effect  of  staving  in  his  ribs,  —  fearful 
to  think  of!  It  was  hard  travelling  that  day.  .  .  . 
Boston  escaped  the  calamity  of  having  a  high  tide 
in  conjunction  with  the  violence  of  the  gale,  but 
Providence  was  half  drowned,  the  flood  rising 
twelve  or  fourteen  feet  above  the  high- water  mark. 
...  It  is  something  to  have  seen  or  felt  or  heard  the 
great  September  gale. 

I'm  not  a  chicken,  I  have  seen 
Full  many  a  chill  September, 
And  though  I  was  a  youngster  then, 
That  gale  I  well  remember; 

[  15  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

The  day  before,  my  kite-string  snapped, 
And  I,  my  kite  pursuing, 
The  wind  whisked  off  my  palm-leaf  hat; 
For  me  two  storms  were  brewing! 

It  chanced  to  be  our  washing-day, 

And  all  our  things  were  drying; 

The  storm  came  roaring  through  the  lines, 

And  set  them  all  a  flying; 

I  saw  the  shirts  and  petticoats 

Go  riding  off  like  witches; 

I  lost,  ah !  bitterly  I  wept,  — 

I  lost  my  Sunday  breeches! 

We  used  to  receive  into  the  family  as  "help,"  as 
they  used  to  be  called,  young  men  and  women 
from  the  country.  From  the  men  and  boys,  young 
persons  of  both  sexes,  I  learned  many  phrases  and 
habits  of  superstition,  and  peculiarities  character- 
istic of  our  country  people.  They  did  not  like  to  be 
called  servants,  did  not  show  great  alacrity  in  an- 
swering the  bell,  the  peremptory  summons  of  which 
had  something  of  command  in  its  tone,  which  did 
not  agree  with  the  free-born  American. 

Many  expressions  which  have  since  died  out  were 
common  in  my  young  days, — "  haowsen  "  for  houses, 
"The  haunt"  for  Nahant,  "musicianers"  for  musi- 
cians. They  had  their  Farmer's  Almanac,  their  broad- 

[  16] 


CHILDHOOD  AND  COLLEGE  DAYS 

sheets  telling  the  story  of  how  the  "Constitootion" 
took  the  "Guerrier,"  and  other  naval  combats. 

They  had  their  specific  medicines,  of  which  "hiry 
pikry  "  (hierapicra  —  sacred  bitters)  was  a  favorite. 
Some  of  the  country  customs  were  retained.  "  Husk- 
ing "  went  on  upon  a  small  scale  in  the  barn.  The 
habits  of  parlor  and  kitchen  with  reference  to  alco- 
holic fluids  were  very  free  and  hazy.  In  the  parlor 
cider  was  drunk  as  freely  as  water;  wine  was  always 
on  the  table  at  dinner,  and  not  abstained  from;  and, 
in  the  kitchen,  cordial,  which  was  simply  diluted 
and  sweetened  alcohol  whatever  was  its  flavor,  was 
an  occasional  luxury;  while  "black  strap,"  or  rum 
and  molasses,  served  in  mowing  time  or  a  "raising." 
One  of  the  greatest  changes  of  the  modern  decades 
has  been  in  the  matter  of  heating  and  lighting.  We 
depended  on  wood,  which  was  brought  from  the 
country  in  loads  upon  sledges.  This  was  often  not 
kept  long  enough  to  burn  easily,  and  the  mockery 
of  the  green  wood-fire  was  one  of  my  recollections, 
the  sap  oozing  from  the  ends  and  standing  in  puddles 
around  the  hearth. 

I  wonder  whether  the  boys  who  live  in  Roxbury 
and  Dorchester  are  ever  moved  to  tears  or  filled 

[  17  1 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

with  silent  awe  as  they  look  upon  the  rocks  and  frag- 
y  ments  of  "  puddingstone  "  abounding  in  those  locali- 
ties. I  have  my  suspicions  that  these  boys  "heave 
a  stone"  or  "fire  a  brickbat,"  composed  of  the  con- 
glomerate just  mentioned,  without  any  more  tear- 
ful or  philosophical  contemplations  than  boys  of 
less  favored  regions  expend  on  the  same  perfor- 
mance. Yet  a  lump  of  puddingstone  is  a  thing  to 
look  at,  to  think  about,  to  study,  to  dream  over,  to 
go  crazy  with,  to  beat  one's  brains  out  against. 
Look  at  that  pebble  in  it.  From  what  cliff  was  it 
broken?  On  what  beach  rolled  by  the  waves  of  the 
ocean?  How  and  when  inbedded  in  soft  ooze,  which 
itself  became  stone,  and  by-and-by  was  lifted  into 
bald  summits  and  steep  cliffs,  such  as  you  may  see 
on  Meetinghouse-Hill  any  day  —  yes,  and  mark 
the  scratches  on  their  faces  left  when  the  boulder- 
carrying  glaciers  planed  the  surface  of  the  continent 
with  such  rough  tools  that  the  storms  have  not 
worn  the  marks  out  of  it  with  all  the  polishing  of 
ever  so  many  thousand  years? 

Or  as  you  pass  a  roadside  ditch  or  pool  in  spring- 
time, take  from  it  a  bit  of  stick  or  straw  which  has 
lain  undisturbed  for  a  time.  Some  little  worm- 
shaped  masses  of  clear  jelly  containing  specks  are 

[  18] 


CHILDHOOD  AND  COLLEGE  DAYS 

fastened  to  the  stick:  eggs  of  a  small  snail-like 
shell-fish.  One  of  these  specks  magnified  proves  to 
be  a  crystalline  sphere  with  an  opaque  mass  in  the 
centre.  And  while  you  are  looking,  the  opaque  mass 
begins  to  stir,  and  by-and-by  slowly  to  turn  upon 
its  axis  like  a  forming  planet,  —  life  beginning 
in  the  microcosm,  as  in  the  great  worlds  of  the 
firmament,  with  the  revolution  that  turns  the 
surface  in  ceaseless  round  to  the  source  of  life  and 
light. 

A  pebble  and  the  spawn  of  a  mollusk !  Before  you 
have  solved  their  mysteries,  this  earth  where  you 
first  saw  them  may  be  a  vitrified  slag,  or  a  vapor 
diffused  through  planetary  spaces.  Mysteries  are 
common  enough,  at  any  rate,  whatever  the  boys  in 
Roxbury  and  Dorchester  think  of  "brickbats"  and 
the  spawn  of  creatures  that  live  in  roadside  puddles. 

At  about  ten  years  of  age  I  began  going  to  what 
we  always  called  the  "Port  School,"  because  it  was 
kept  at  Cambridgeport,  a  mile  from  the  College. 
This  suburb  was  at  that  time  thinly  inhabited, 
and,  being  much  of  it  marshy  and  imperfectly  re- 
claimed, had  a  dreary  look  as  compared  with  the 
thriving  College  settlement.  The  tenants  of  the 
many  beautiful  mansions  that  have  sprung  up  along 

[  19] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

Main  Street,  Harvard  Street,  and  Broadway  can 
hardly  recall  the  time  when,  except  the  "Dana 
House"  and  the  "Opposition  House"  and  the 
"  Clark  House,"  these  roads  were  almost  all  the  way 
bordered  by  pastures  until  we  reached  the  "stores" 
of  Main  Street,  or  were  abreast  of  that  forlorn 
"First  Row "  of  Harvard  Street.  We  called  the  boys 
of  that  locality  "Port-chucks."  They  called  us 
"Cambridge-chucks,"  but  we  got  along  very  well 
together  in  the  main.  .  .  . 

Sitting  on  the  girls'  benches,  conspicuous  among 
the  school-girls  of  unlettered  origin  by  that  look 
which  rarely  fails  to  betray  hereditary  and  congeni- 
tal culture,  was  a  young  person  very  nearly  my  own 
age.  She  came  with  the  reputation  of  being  "  smart," 
as  we  should  have  called  it,  clever  as  we  say  nowa- 
days. This  was  Margaret  Fuller,  .  .  .  her  air  to  her 
schoolmates  was  marked  by  a  certain  stateliness 
and  distance,  as  if  she  had  other  thoughts  than 
theirs  and  was  not  of  them.  ...  A  remarkable 
point  about  her  was  that  long,  flexile  neck,  arching 
and  undulating  in  strange,  sinuous  movements, 
which  one  who  loved  her  would  compare  to  those  of 
a  swan,  and  one  who  loved  her  not,  to  those  of  the 
ophidian  who  tempted  our  common  mother. 

[  20] 


Old  Latin  School,  Bedford  Street,  1860 


CHILDHOOD  AND  COLLEGE  DAYS 

My  first  schoolmaster,  William  Biglow,  was  a 
man  of  peculiar  character.  He  had  been  master  of 
the  Boston  Latin  School  for  a  number  of  years,  and 
seems  to  have  found  his  pupils  an  unmanageable  set 
in  the  early  part  of  his  reign.  I  can  easily  under- 
stand how  he  found  difficulties  in  the  management 
of  a  large  collection  of  city  boys.  ...  I  do  not  re- 
member being  the  subject  of  any  reproof  or  disci- 
pline at  that  school,  although  I  do  not  doubt  I  de- 
served it,  for  I  was  an  inveterate  whisperer  at  every 
school  I  ever  attended.  I  do  remember  that  once  as 
he  passed  me,  he  tapped  me  on  the  forehead  with  his 
pencil,  and  said  he  "could  n't  help  it  if  I  would  do 
so  well,"  a  compliment  I  have  never  forgotten. 

After  being  five  years  at  Port  School,  the  time 
drew  near  when  I  was  to  enter  College.  It  seemed 
advisable  to  give  me  a  year  of  higher  training,  and 
for  that  end  some  public  school  was  thought  to  offer 
advantages.  Phillips  Academy  at  Andover  was  well 
known  to  us.  .  .  .  It  was  settled  then  that  I  should 
go  to  Phillips  Academy,  and  preparations  were 
made  that  I  might  join  the  school  at  the  beginning 
of  autumn. 

In  due  time  I  took  my  departure  in  the  old  car- 
[21  1 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

riage,  a  little  modernized  from  the  pattern  of  my 
Lady  BountifuTs,  and  we  jogged  soberly  along,  — 
kind  parents  and  slightly  nostalgic  boy,  —  towards 
the  seat  of  learning  some  twenty  miles  away.  Up 
the  old  West  Cambridge  road,  now  North  Avenue; 
past  Davenport's  tavern,  with  its  sheltering  tree 
and  swinging  sign;  past  the  old  powder  -house,  look- 
ing like  a  colossal  conical  ball  set  on  end;  past  the 
old  Tidd  House,  one  of  the  finest  ante-Revolution- 
ary mansions;  past  Miss  Swan's  great  square  board- 
ing-school, where  the  music  of  girlish  laughter  was 
ringing  through  the  windy  corridors ;  so  on  through 
Stoneham  .  .  .  Reading  .  .  .  Wilmington  ...  so  at 
last  into  the  hallowed  borders  of  the  academic 
town. 

My  literary  performances  at  Andover,  if  any 
reader  who  may  have  survived  so  far  cares  to  know, 
included  a  translation  from  Virgil,  out  of  which  I 
remember  this  couplet,  which  had  the  inevitable 
cockney  rhyme  of  beginners :  — 

"  Thus  by  the  power  of  Jove's  imperial  arm 
The  boiling  ocean  trembled  into  calm." 

Also  a  discussion  with  Master  Phineas  Barnes 
on  the  case  of  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,  which  he 
treated  argumentatively  and  I  rhetorically  and  sen- 

[  22  ] 


CHILDHOOD  AND  COLLEGE  DAYS 

timentally.  My  sentences  were  praised  and  his  con- 
clusions adopted. 

I  went  from  the  Academy  to  Harvard  College. 

We  have  stately  old  Colonial  palaces  in  our  an- 
cient village,  now  a  city,  and  a  thriving  one,  — 
square-fronted  edifices  that  stand  back  from  the 
vulgar  highway,  with  folded  arms,  as  it  were;  social 
fortresses  of  the  time  when  the  twilight  lustre  of 
the  throne  reached  as  far  as  our  half -cleared  settle- 
ment, with  a  glacis  before  them  in  the  shape  of  a 
long  broad  gravel-walk,  so  that  in  King  George's 
time  they  looked  as  formidably  to  any  but  the  silk- 
stocking  gentry,  as  Gibraltar,  or  Ehrenbreitstein, 
to  a  visitor  without  the  password.  We  forget  all 
this  in  the  kindly  welcome  they  give  us  today ;  for 
some  of  them  are  still  standing  and  doubly  famous, 
as  we  all  know. 

The  College  plain  would  be  nothing  without  its 
elms.  As  the  long  hair  of  woman  is  a  glory  to  her,  so 
are  these  green  tresses  that  bank  themselves  against 
the  sky  in  thick  clustered  masses  the  ornament  and 
the  pride  of  the  classic  green.  You  know  the  "  Wash-v/ 
ington  Elm,"  or  if  you  do  not,  you  had  better  re- 

[  23  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

kindle  your  patriotism  by  reading  the  inscription, 
which  tells  you  that  under  its  shadow  the  great 
leader  first  drew  his  sword  at  the  head  of  an  Ameri- 
can army.  In  a  line  with  that  you  may  see  two 
others :  the  coral  fan,  as  I  always  called  it  from  its 
resemblance  in  form  to  that  beautiful  marine  growth, 
and  a  third  a  little  further  along.  I  have  heard  it 
said  that  all  three  were  planted  at  the  same  time, 
and  that  the  difference  in  growth  is  due  to  the  slope 
of  the  ground,  —  the  Washington  elm  being  lower 
than  either  of  the  others. 

The  soil  of  the  University  town  is  divided  into 
patches  of  sandy  and  clayey  ground.  The  Common 
and  the  College  green,  near  which  the  old  house 
stands,  are  on  one  of  the  sandy  patches.  Four 
curses  are  the  local  inheritance:  droughts,  dust, 
mud,  and  canker-worms.  I  cannot  but  think  that 
all  the  characters  of  a  region  help  to  modify  the 
children  born  in  it.  I  am  fond  of  making  apologies 
for  human  nature,  and  I  think  I  could  find  an  ex- 
cuse for  myself  if  I,  too,  were  dry  and  barren  and 
muddy- witted  and  "cantankerous," — disposed  to 
get  my  back  up,  like  those  other  natives  of  the  soil. 

Like  other  boys  in  the  country,  I  had  my  patch 
of  ground,  to  which,  in  the  spring  time,  I  intrusted 

[  24  ] 


CHILDHOOD  AND  COLLEGE  DAYS 

the  seeds  furnished  me,  with  a  confident  trust  in 
their  resurrection  and  glorification  in  the  better 
world  of  summer.  But  I  soon  found  that  my  lines 
had  fallen  in  a  place  where  a  vegetable  growth  had 
to  run  the  gauntlet  of  as  many  foes  and  trials  as  a 
Christian  pilgrim. 

Beyond  the  garden  was  "the  field,"  a  vast  do- 
main of  four  acres  or  thereabout,  by  the  measure- 
ment of  after  years,  bordered  to  the  north  by  a 
fathomless  chasm,  —  the  ditch  the  base-ball  players 
of  the  present  era  jump  over;  on  the  east  by  unex- 
plored territory;  on  the  south  by  a  barren  enclosure, 
where  the  red  sorrel  proclaimed  liberty  and  equality 
under  its  drapeau  rouge,  and  succeeded  in  establish- 
ing a  vegetable  commune  where  all  were  alike,  poor, 
mean,  sour,  and  uninteresting;  and  on  the  west  by 
the  Common,  not  then  disgraced  by  jealous  en- 
closures, which  make  it  look  like  a  cattle-market. 
Beyond,  as  I  looked  round,  were  the  Colleges,  the 
meeting-house,  the  little  square  market-house,  long 
vanished;  the  burial-ground  where  the  dead  Presi- 
dents stretched  their  weary  bones  under  epitaphs 
stretched  out  at  as  full  length  as  their  subjects ;  the 
pretty  church  where  the  gouty  Tories  used  to  kneel 

[  25  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

on  their  hassocks;  the  district  school-house,  and 
hard  by  it  Ma'am  Hancock's  cottage,  never  so  called 
in  those  days,  but  rather  "tenfooter";  then  houses 
scattered  near  and  far,  open  spaces,  the  shadowy 
elms,  round  hilltops  in  the  distance  and  over  all  the 
great  bowl  of  the  sky.  Mind  you,  this  was  the 
WORLD,  as  I  first  knew  it;  terra  veteribus  cognita, 
as  Mr.  Arrowsmith  would  have  called  it,  if  he  had 
mapped  out  the  universe  of  my  infancy. 

By  and  by  the  stony  foot  of  the  great  University 
will  plant  itself  on  this  whole  territory,  and  the  pri- 
vate recollections  which  cling  so  tenaciously  and 
fondly  to  the  place  and  its  habitations  will  have 
died  with  those  who  cherished  them. 

Shall  they  ever  live  again  in  the  memory  of  those 
who  loved  them  here  below?  What  is  this  life  with- 
out the  poor  accidents  which  make  it  our  own,  and 
by  which  we  identify  ourselves?  Ah  me!  I  might 
like  to  be  a  winged  chorister,  but  still  it  seems  to  me 
I  should  hardly  be  quite  happy  if  I  could  not  recall 
at  will  the  Old  House  with  the  Long  Entry,  and  the 
White  Chamber  (where  I  wrote  the  first  verses  that 
made  me  known,  with  a  pencil,  starts  pede  in  uno, 
pretty  nearly),  and  the  Little  Parlor  and  the  Study, 

[  26  ] 


CHILDHOOD  AND  COLLEGE  DAYS 

and  the  old  books  in  uniforms  as  varied  as  those  of 
the  Ancient  and  Honorable  Artillery  Company  used 
to  be,  if  my  memory  serves  me  right,  and  the  front 
yard  with  the  Star-of-Bethlehems  growing,  flower- 
less,  among  the  grass,  and  the  dear  faces  to  be  seen 
no  more  there  or  anywhere  on  this  earthly  place  of 
farewells. 

Go  where  the  ancient  pathway  guides, 

See  where  our  sires  laid  down 
Their  smiling  babes,  their  cherished  brides, 

The  patriarchs  of  the  town; 
Hast  thou  a  tear  for  buried  love? 

A  sigh  for  transient  power? 
All  that  a  century  left  above, 

Go,  read  it  in  an  hour! 


CHAPTER  II 
HABITS  AND  HABITATIONS 


At,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down! 

Long  has  it  waved  on  high, 
And  many  an  eye  has  danced  to  see 

That  banner  in  the  sky; 
Beneath  it  rung  the  battle  shout, 

And  burst  the  cannon's  roar;  — 
The  meteor  of  the  ocean  air 

Shall  sweep  the  clouds  no  more. 

Her  deck,  once  red  with  heroes'  blood, 

Where  knelt  the  vanquished  foe, 
When  winds  were  hurrying  o'er  the  flood, 

And  waves  were  white  below, 
No  more  shall  feel  the  victor's  tread, 

Or  know  the  conquered  knee;  — 
The  harpies  of  the  shore  shall  pluck 

The  eagle  of  the  sea! 

Oh  better  that  her  shattered  hulk 

Should  sink  beneath  the  wave; 
Her  thunders  shook  the  mighty  deep, 

And  there  should  be  her  grave; 
Nail  to  the  mast  her  holy  flag, 

Set  every  threadbare  sail, 
And  give  her  to  the  god  of  storms, 

The  lightning  and  the  gale! 


CHAPTER    II 

HABITS  AND  HABITATIONS 

I,  then,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  Junior  in  Har- 
vard University,  am  a  plumeless  biped  of  the 
height  of  exactly  five  feet  three  inches  when  stand- 
ing in  a  pair  of  substantial  boots  made  by  Mr. 
Russell  of  this  town,  having  eyes  which  I  call  blue,  f 
and  hair  which  I  do  not  know  what  to  call, — in 
short,  something  such  a  looking  kind  of  animal  as  I 
was  at  Andover,  with  the  addition  of  two  or  three 
inches  to  my  stature.  Secondly  with  regard  to  my 
moral  qualities,  I  am  rather  lazy  than  otherwise, 
and  certainly  do  not  study  as  hard  as  I  ought  to.  I 
am  not  dissipated  and  I  am  not  sedate,  and  when 
I  last  ascertained  my  college  rank  I  stood  in  the 
humble  situation  of  seventeenth  scholar.  ...  I  am 
acquainted  with  a  great  many  fellows  who  do  not 
speak  to  each  other.  Still  I  find  pleasant  compan- 
ions and  a  few  good  friends  among  these  jarring 
elements.  .  .  . 

Wednesday  —  yesterday  —  was  our  Exhibition; 
on  the  whole  it  was  very  poor;  sometimes  fellows 

[31] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

will  get  high  parts  who  cannot  sustain  them  with 
credit.  Our  Exhibition  days,  however,  are  very 
pleasant;  in  defiance  of,  or  rather  evading,  the 
injunctions  of  the  government,  we  contrive  to  have 
what  they  call  "festive  entertainments  "  and  we  call 
"blows."  A  fine  body  of  academic  militia,  denom- 
inated the  "Harvard  Washington  Corps,"  parades 
before  the  ladies  in  the  afternoon,  and  there  is  eat- 
ing and  drinking  and  smoking  and  making  merry. 
If  you  ever  come  to  Boston  you  will,  of  course, 
come  to  Cambridge.  Our  town  has  not  much  to 
boast  of,  excepting  the  College;  it  contains  several 
thousand  inhabitants,  but  there  are  three  distinct 
villages.  Our  professors  are  several  of  them  perfect 
originals. 

[Two  years  later  Holmes,  the  medical  student,  again 
discourses  upon  his  position  in  another  communication 
to  his  friend  Phinehas  Barnes.] 

What  a  busy  world  we  live  in!   The  turmoil  of 

those  bustling  around  us,  the  ebb  and  flow,  the  dash 

and  recoil,  of  the  unceasing  tide  within  us,  —  but  I 

begin  to  talk  fustian.  I  suppose  now  that  whenever 

you  take  the  trouble  to  think  about  me  your  fancy 

sketches  a  twofold  picture.    In  the  front  ground 

stands  myself,  on  one  side  sparkle  the  fountains  of 

[  m  ] 


HABITS   AND   HABITATIONS 

Castalia  and  on  the  other  stand  open  the  portals  of 
Nemesis  (if  that  be  the  name  of  Law).  My  most 
excellent  romancer,  it  is  not  so!  I  must  announce 
to  you  the  startling  position  that  I  have  been  a 
medical  student  for  more  than  six  months,  and  I 
am  sitting  with  Wistar's  Anatomy  beneath  my 
quiescent  arm,  with  a  stethoscope  on  my  desk,  and 
the  blood-stained  implements  of  my  ungracious 
profession  around  me.  ...  I  know  I  might  have 
made  an  indifferent  lawyer,  —  I  think  I  may  make 
a  tolerable  physician,  —  I  did  not  like  the  one,  and 
I  do  like  the  other.  And  so  you  must  know  that  for 
the  last  several  months  I  have  been  quietly  occupy- 
ing a  room  in  Boston,  attending  medical  lectures, 
going  to  the  Massachusetts  Hospital,  and  slicing 
and  slivering  the  carcasses  of  better  men  and 
women  than  I  ever  was  myself  or  am  like  to  be.  It 
is  a  sin  for  a  puny  little  fellow  like  me  to  mutilate 
one  of  your  six-foot  men  as  if  he  was  a  sheep,  but 
vive  la  science!  I  must  write  a  piece  and  call  it 
records  of  the  dissecting-room,  so  let  me  save  all 
my  pretty  things,  as  plums  for  my  pudding.  If  you  / 
would  die  fagged  to  death  like  a  crow  with  the  king 
birds  after  him,  —  be  a  school-master;  if  you  would 
wax  thin  and  savage,  like  a  half -fed  spider,  —  be  a 

[  33  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

lawyer;  if  you  would  go  off  like  an  opium-eater  in 
love  with  your  starving  delusion,  — be  a  doctor. 

To  change  the  subject  —  I  have  just  now  a  ruse 
in  my  head  which  I  am  in  hopes  to  put  into  execu- 
tion this  summer.  You  must  be  aware,  then,  that 
there  is  a  young  lady,  or  what  sounds  sweeter,  a 
girl,  in  Maine — I  do  not  say  where.  Well,  perhaps 
I  am  in  love  with  her,  and  perhaps  she  is  in  love 
with  me.  At  any  rate  I  made  a  strapping  fellow 
bite  his  nails,  who  had  the  impertinence  to  think 
she  was  pretty.  I  quizzed  the  caitiff  in  his  remarks, 
anticipated  his  gallantries,  and  plagued  him  till  he 
went  about  his  business.  Now  I  have  a  sneaking 
notion  of  coming  down  to  Maine  to  see  you,  as  I 
shall  tell  the  folks,  and  take  a  cross-cut  over  to  her 
log  house.  I  can  find  it.  She  had  so  much  the  air  of 
a  human  being  while  she  was  here  that  I  have  a 
curiosity  to  see  her  wild.  Keep  quiet.  Do  not  write 
sixteen  pages  of  cross-questions  about  her  name  and 
home  and  such  sublunary  things.  When  I  am  mar- 
ried you  shall  come  and  see  us,  and  show  her  this 
letter.  We  shall  breakfast  at  eight  and  dine  at  two 
precisely. 

[In  1830,  when  Holmes  was  in  the  Law  School,  the 
frigate  Constitution,  then  lying  in  the  Charlestown 

[34  1 


HABITS  AND   HABITATIONS 

Navy  Yard,  was  condemned  by  the  Navy  Department 
to  be  destroyed.  Holmes  read  this  in  a  newspaper  and  in 
a  mood  of  indignation  hastily  penned  the  lines  of  "Old 
Ironsides"  and  sent  them  to  the  Boston  "Advertiser." 
Fast  and  far  the  verses  travelled  through  the  press  of  the 
country,  and  when  they  reached  Washington,  they  were 
circulated  on  printed  handbills.  The  astonished  Secre- 
tary made  haste  to  retrace  the  step  which  he  had  taken 
in  the  interest  of  business,  and  the  ship  obtained  its 
reprieve  from  the  young  law  student,  who  thus  achieved 
fame  as  a  rising  poet. 

About  the  year  1836,  one  may  catch  a  glimpse  of  the 
young  doctor  driving  about  the  city  in  that  chaise 
which,  he  asserted  gayly,  brought  him  more  satisfaction 
than  did  the  active  practice  of  medicine :  "In  one  of  the 
clumsy  great  vehicles  of  that  day,  swung  upon  huge 
C  springs,  vibrating  in  every  direction,  the  little  gentle- 
man used  to  appear  advancing  along  the  road,  seeming 
at  once  in  peril  and  a  cause  of  peril,  bouncing  insecurely 
upon  the  seat,  and  driving  always  a  mettlesome  steed 
at  an  audacious  speed." 

On  June  15,  1840,  the  year  after  he  had  begun  to 
practise  medicine,  Dr.  Holmes  married  Amelia  Lee 
Jackson,  of  Boston,  the  third  daughter  of  Hon.  Charles 
Jackson,  an  associate  Justice  of  the  Supreme  Judicial 
Court  of  the  Commonwealth.  Mrs.  Holmes  was  an 
ideal  wife,  a  delightful  comrade,  and  a  helpmate  calcu- 
lated to  supply  the  wants,  and,  by  her  skilful  manage- 
ment, smooth  the  path  for  her  husband.  Her  executive 
ability  enabled  her  to  perform  easily  many  tasks  which 
would  otherwise  have  rested  upon  the  Doctor's  shouders ; 
she  shielded  him  from  bores  and  unnecessary  interrup- 

[35] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

tions  and  made  his  surroundings  both  cheerful  and  tran- 
quil. She  was  kind,  gentle,  and  tactful,  and  rose  with 
strength  and  nobility  to  a  great  emergency  such  as  she 
was  forced  to  face  when  her  eldest  son  was  three  times 
wounded  in  the  Civil  War.  The  children  of  this  marriage 
were  three.  The  eldest,  Oliver  Wendell,  has  since  had 
an  illustrious  career;  entering  the  Twentieth  Massa- 
chusetts among  the  early  volunteers,  he  was  severely 
wounded  in  three  engagements,  but  each  time  returned 
to  the  field.  He  became  a  lieutenant-colonel  in  the 
service.  Later  he  studied  law,  won  distinction  by  his 
writings,  and  has  now  been  for  many  years  an  Associate 
Justice  of  the  United  States  Supreme  Court.  The  sec- 
ond child,  a  daughter  named  after  her  mother,  married 
Mr.  Tudor  Sargent.  She  died  in  1889.  The  third  child, 
Edward  Jackson,  inherited  much  of  his  father's  wit  and 
humor  but  he  also  inherited  the  asthma  with  which  Dr. 
Holmes  was  all  his  life  afflicted.  This  undermined  the 
son's  rather  feeble  constitution  so  that  he  was  much 
hampered  in  his  practice  of  law;  he  died  in  1884,  and 
his  mother  survived  him  for  four  years,  passing  away 
in  1888. 

At  the  time  of  his  marriage  Dr.  Holmes  bought  a 
house  at  No.  8  Montgomery  Place,  subsequently  Bos- 
worth  Street,  which  has  long  since  vanished,  and  of 
which  he  wrote  in  1885:] 

Yesterday  morning  I  passed  through  Montgom- 
ery Place,  and  found  workmen  tearing  out  the  in- 
side of  No.  8,  where  we  lived  for  eighteen  years,  and 
where  all  my  children  were  born.   Not  a  vestige  is 

[36] 


HABITS   AND   HABITATIONS 

left  to  show  where  our  old  Cambridge  house  stood. 
.  .  .  We  must  make  ourselves  new  habitations  .  .  . 
that  is  all:  and  carry  our  remembrances,  associa- 
tions, affections,  all  that  makes  home,  under  a  new 
roof. 

Little  I  ask;  my  wants  are  few; 
I  only  wish  a  hut  of  stone, 

(A  very  plain  brown  stone  will  do,) 
That  I  may  call  my  own;  — 

And  close  at  hand  is  such  a  one, 

In  yonder  street  that  fronts  the  sun. 

I  care  not  much  for  gold  or  land;  — 
Give  me  a  mortgage  here  and  there,  — 

Some  good  bank-stock,  some  note  of  hand, 
Or  trifling  railroad  share,  — 

I  only  ask  that  Fortune  send 

A  little  more  than  I  shall  spend. 

[From  Montgomery  Place,  Dr.  Holmes  moved  to  164 
Charles  Street,  on  the  riverside,  near  the  Cambridge 
bridge.  This  house  commanded  a  fine  view  of  the  estuary 
of  the  Charles  backed  by  the  neighboring  hills,  and  here 
the  Doctor  spent  some  happy  years  until  the  destroying 
hand  of  "progress"  again  approached  his  dwelling  and 
the  increasing  business  traffic  on  Charles  Street  forced 
him  to  migrate  to  a  more  tranquil  spot,  and  he  followed 
the  river  —  back  up  Beacon  Street  —  to  his  final  home 
at  296.  It  was  in  1870  that  he  took  possession  of  his 
Beacon  Street  home,  in  which  he  breathed  his  last  on 
October  7,  1894. 

[  37  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

He  was  for  many  years  an  enthusiastic  oarsman,  and 
before  the  building-up  of  the  Back  Bay  district,  when 
there  was  an  extensive  estuary  on  which  to  embark,  he 
was  one  of  the  first  to  launch  his  boat  upon  these 
waters.  He  was  to  be  seen,  when  the  weather  permitted, 
making  long  excursions  in  his  "long,  sharp-pointed, 
black-cradle"  pattern,  and  he  has  entertainingly  de- 
scribed this  pastime:] 

For  the  past  nine  years,  I  have  rowed  about,  dur- 
ing a  good  part  of  the  summer,  on  fresh  or  salt 
water.  My  present  fleet  on  the  river  Charles  con- 
sists of  three  row-boats.  1  — A  small  flat-bottomed 
skiff  of  the  shape  of  a  flat-iron,  kept  mainly  to  lend 
to  boys.  2  —  A  fancy  dory  for  two  pairs  of  sculls, 
in  which  I  sometimes  go  out  with  my  young  folks. 
3  —  My  own  particular  water-sulky,  a  "skeleton" 
or  "shell"  race-boat,  twenty-two  feet  long,  with 
huge  outriggers,  which  boat  I  pull  with  ten  foot 
sculls,  —  alone,  of  course,  as  it  holds  but  one,  and 
tips  him  out  if  he  does  n't  mind  what  he  is  about. 
In  this  I  glide  around  the  Back  Bay,  down  the 
stream,  up  the  Charles  to  Cambridge  and  Water- 
town,  up  the  Mystic,  round  the  wharves,  in  the 
wake  of  steamboats,  which  leave  a  swell  after  them 
delightful  to  rock  upon;  I  linger  under  the  bridges, 
—  those  "caterpillar  bridges,"  as  my  brother  pro- 

[  38  ] 


View  from  the  State  House  looking  West,  showing  the  Back  Bay 
before  it  was  filled  in 


HABITS   AND   HABITATIONS 

fessor  so  happily  called  them;  rub  against  the  black 
sides  of  wood-schooners ;  cool  down  under  the  over- 
hanging stern  of  some  tall  Indiaman;  stretch  across 
to  the  Navy  Yard,  where  the  sentinel  warns  me  off 
from  the  Ohio,  —  just  as  if  I  should  hurt  her  by 
lying  in  her  shadow;  then  strike  out  into  the  harbor, 
where  the  water  gets  clear  and  the  air  smells  of  the 
ocean,  —  till  all  at  once  I  remember,  that,  if  a  west 
wind  blows  up  of  a  sudden,  I  shall  drift  along  past 
the  islands,  out  of  sight  of  the  dear  old  State  House, 
—  plate,  tumbler,  knife  and  fork  all  waiting  at 
home,  but  no  chair  drawn  up  at  the  table,  —  all  the 
dear  people  waiting,  waiting,  waiting,  while  the 
boat  is  sliding,  sliding,  sliding  into  the  great  desert, 
were  there  is  no  tree  and  no  fountain.  As  I  don't 
want  my  wreck  to  be  washed  up  on  one  of  the  beaches 
in  company  with  devil's-aprons,  bladder- weeds, 
dead  horse-shoes,  and  bleached  crab-shells,  I  turn 
about  and  flap  my  long  narrow  wings  for  home. 

When  the  tide  is  running  out  swiftly,  I  have  a 
splendid  fight  to  get  through  the  bridges,  but  al- 
ways make  it  a  rule  to  beat,  —  though  I  have  been 
jammed  up  into  pretty  tight  places  at  times,  and 
was  caught  once  between  a  vessel  swinging  round 
and  the  pier,  until  our  bones  (the  boat's,  that  is) 

[39  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

cracked  as  if  we  had  been  in  the  jaws  of  Behemoth. 
Then  back  to  my  moorings  at  the  foot  of  the  Com- 
mon, off  with  the  rowing-dress,  dash  under  the 
green  translucent  wave,  return  to  the  garb  of  civi- 
lization, walk  through  my  garden,  take  a  look  at  the 
elms  on  the  Common,  and  reaching  my  habitat,  in 
consideration  of  my  advanced  period  of  life,  indulge 
in  the  Elysian  abandonment  of  a  huge  recumbent 
chair. 

When  I  have  established  a  pair  of  well-pro- 
nounced feathering-calluses  on  my  thumbs,  when 
I  am  in  training  so  that  I  can  do  my  fifteen  miles 
at  a  stretch  without  coming  to  grief  in  any  way, 
when  I  can  perform  my  mile  in  eight  minutes  or  a 
little  more,  then  I  feel  as  if  I  had  old  Time's  head 
in  chancery,  and  could  give  it  to  him  at  my  leisure. 

I  do  not  deny  the  attraction  of  walking.  I  have 
bored  this  ancient  city  through  and  through  in  my 
daily  travels,  until  I  know  it  as  an  old  inhabitant  of 
Cheshire  knows  his  cheese.  Why,  it  was  I  who,  in 
the  course  of  these  rambles,  discovered  that  re- 
markable avenue  called  Myrtle  Street,  stretching 
in  one  long  line  from  east  of  the  Reservoir  to  a  pre- 
cipitous and  rudely  paved  cliff  which  looks  down 

[  40  ] 


HABITS   AND   HABITATIONS 

on  the  grim  abode  of  Science,  and  beyond  it  to  the 
far  hills;  a  promenade  so  delicious  in  its  repose,  so 
cheerfully  varied  with  glimpses  down  the  northern 
slope  into  busy  Cambridge  Street  with  its  iron  river 
of  the  horse-railroad,  and  wheeled  barges  gliding 
back  and  forward  over  it,  —  so  delightfully  closing 
at  its  western  extremity  in  sunny  courts  and  pas- 
sages where  I  know  peace,  and  beauty,  and  virtue, 
and  serene  old  age  must  be  perpetual  tenants,  —  so 
alluring  to  all  who  desire  to  take  their  daily  stroll, 
in  the  words  of  Dr.  Watts  — 

"Alike  unknowing  and  unknown,  —  " 

that  nothing  but  a  sense  of  duty  would  have 
prompted  me  to  reveal  the  secret  of  its  existence.  I 
concede,  therefore,  that  walking  is  an  immeasur- 
ably fine  invention,  of  which  old  age  ought  con- 
stantly to  avail  itself. 

I  dare  not  publicly  name  the  rare  joys,  the  infi- 
nite delights,  that  intoxicate  me  on  some  sweet 
June  morning,  when  the  river  and  bay  are  smooth 
as  a  sheet  of  beryl-green  silk,  and  I  run  along  rip- 
ping it  up  with  my  knife-edged  shell  of  a  boat,  the 
rent  closing  after  me  like  those  wounds  of  angels 
which  Milton  tells  of,  but  the  seam  still  shining 

[41  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

for  many  a  long  rood  behind  me.  To  lie  still  over 
the  Flats,  where  the  waters  are  shallow,  and  see  the 
crabs  crawling  and  the  sculpins  gliding  busily  and 
silently  beneath  the  boat,  —  to  rustle  in  through 
the  long  harsh  grass  that  leads  up  some  tranquil 
creek,  —  to  take  shelter  from  the  sunbeams  under 
one  of  the  thousand-footed  bridges,  and  look  down 
its  interminable  colonnades,  crusted  with  green  and 
oozy  growth,  studded  with  minute  barnacles,  and 
belted  with  rings  of  dark  mussels,  while  overhead 
streams  and  thunders  that  other  river  whose  every 
wave  is  a  human  soul  flowing  to  eternity  as  the 
river  below  flows  to  the  ocean,  lying  there  moored 
unseen,  in  loneliness  so  profound  that  the  columns 
of  Tadmor  in  the  Desert  could  not  seem  more  re- 
mote from  life  —  the  cool  breeze  on  one's  forehead, 
the  stream  whispering  against  the  half-sunken  pil- 
lars, —  why  should  I  tell  of  these  things,  that  I 
should  live  to  see  my  beloved  haunts  invaded  and 
the  waves  blackened  with  boats  as  with  a  swarm  of 
water-beetles?  What  a  city  of  idiots  we  must  be  not 
to  have  covered  this  glorious  bay  with  gondolas  and 
wherries,  as  we  have  just  learned  to  cover  the  ice  in 
winter  with  skaters!  I  am  satisfied  that  such  a  set 
of  black-coated,  stiff- jointed,  soft-muscled,  paste- 

[  42  1 


Summer  Street  in  1846,  showing  Trinity  Church,  urith  Park  Street 
Steeple  in  the  Distance 


HABITS   AND    HABITATIONS 

complexioned  youth  as  we  can  boast  in  our  Atlantic 
cities  never  before  sprang  from  loins  of  Anglo-Saxon 
lineage. 

West  Boston  Bridge,  which  I  rake  with  my  opera- 
glass  from  my  window,  I  have  been  in  the  habit 
of  crossing  since  the  time  when  the  tall  masts  of 
schooners  and  sloops  at  the  Cambridge  end  of  it 
used  to  frighten  me,  being  a  very  little  child.  Year 
after  year  the  boys  and  men,  black  and  white,  may 
be  seen  fishing  over  its  rails,  as  hopefully  as  if  the 
river  were  full  of  salmon.  At  certain  seasons  there 
will  be  now  and  then  captured  a  youthful  and  inex- 
perienced codfish,  always,  so  far  as  I  have  observed, 
of  quite  trivial  dimensions.  The  fame  of  the  exploit 
has  no  sooner  gone  abroad,  than  the  enthusiasts  of 
the  art  come  flocking  down  the  river  and  cast  their 
lines  in  side  by  side,  until  they  look  like  a  row  of  harp 
strings  for  number.  .  .  .  The  spiny  sculpin  and  the 
flabby,  muddy  flounder  are  the  common  rewards  of 
the  angler's  toil.  Do  you  happen  to  know  these  fish  ? 

[Turning  his  back  upon  the  river  which  he  loves  so 
well,  Dr.  Holmes  climbs  the  hill  and  points  out  the 
early  abiding  places  of  several  famous  Bostonians.] 

Emerson's  birthplace  and  that  of  our  other  illus- 
[  43  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

trious  Bostonian,  Benjamin  Franklin,  were  within 
a  kite-string's  distance  of  each  other.  When  the 
baby  philosopher  of  the  last  century  was  carried 
from  Milk  Street  through  the  narrow  passage  long 
/  known  as  Bishop's  Alley,  now  Hawley  Street,  he 
came  out  in  Summer  Street,  very  nearly  opposite 
the  spot  where,  at  the  beginning  of  this  century, 
stood  the  parsonage  of  the  First  Church,  the  home 
of  the  Reverend  William  Emerson,  its  pastor,  and 
the  birthplace  of  his  son  Ralph  Waldo.  The  oblong 
•  quadrangle  between  Newbury,  now  Washington 
Street,  Pond,  now  Bedford  Street,  Summer  Street, 
and  the  open  space  called  Church  Green,  where  the 
New  South  Church  was  afterwards  erected,  is  rep- 
resented on  Bonner's  maps  of  1772  and  1769  as  an 
almost  blank  area,  not  crossed  or  penetrated  by  a 
single  passageway. 

Even  so  late  as  less  than  a  half  century  ago  this 
region  was  still  a  most  attractive  little  rus  in  urhe. 
The  sunny  gardens  of  the  late  Judge  Charles  Jack- 
son and  the  late  Mr.  S.  P.  Gardner  opened  their 
flowers  and  ripened  their  fruits  in  the  places  now 
occupied  by  great  warehouses  and  other  massive 
edifices.  The  most  aristocratic  pears,  the  "Saint 
Michael,"  the  "Brown  Bury,"  found  their  natural 

[  44  ] 


Beacon  Street  in  Dr.  Holmes's  Time 


HABITS   AND   HABITATIONS 

homes  in  these  sheltered  enclosures.  The  fine  old 
mansion  of  Judge  William  Prescott  looked  out  upon 
these  gardens.  Some  of  us  can  well  remember  the 
window  of  his  son's,  the  historian's,  study,  the  light 
from  which  used  every  evening  to  glimmer  through 
the  leaves  of  the  pear-trees  while  the  "Conquest  of 
Mexico"  was  achieving  itself  under  difficulties 
hardly  less  formidable  than  those  encountered  by 
Cortes.  It  was  a  charmed  region  in  which  Emerson 
first  drew  his  breath. 

Motley's  father's  family  was  at  this  time  living  in 
the  house  No.  7  Walnut  Street,  looking  down  Chest- 
nut Street  over  the  water  to  the  western  hills.  Near 
by,  at  the  corner  of  Beacon  Street,  was  the  residence 
of  the  family  of  the  first  mayor  of  Boston,  and  at 
a  little  distance  from  the  opposite  corner  was  the 
house  of  one  of  the  fathers  of  New  England  manu- 
facturing enterprise,  a  man  of  superior  intellect, 
who  built  up  a  great  name  and  fortune  in  our  city. 
The  children  from  these  three  homes  naturally  be- 
came playmates.  Mr.  Motley's  house  was  a  very 
hospitable  one,  and  Lothrop  and  two  of  his  young 
companions  were  allowed  to  carry  out  their  schemes 
of  amusement  in  the  garden  and  the  garret.  If  one 
with  a  prescient  glance  could  have  looked  into  that 

[45  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

garret  on  some  Saturday  afternoon  while  our  cen- 
tury was  not  far  advanced  in  its  second  score  of 
years,  he  might  have  found  three  boys  in  cloaks  and 
doublets  and  plumed  hats,  heroes  and  bandits,  en- 
acting more  or  less  impromptu  melodramas.  In  one 
of  the  boys  he  would  have  seen  the  embryo  drama- 
tist of  a  nation's  life  history,  John  Lothrop  Motley; 
in  the  second,  a  famous  talker  and  wit  who  has 
spilled  more  good  things  on  the  wasteful  air  in  con- 
versation than  would  carry  a  "diner-out"  through 
half  a  dozen  London  seasons  .  .  .  Thomas  Gold 
Appleton.  In  the  third,  he  would  have  recognized 
a  champion  of  liberty  known  wherever  that  word  is 
spoken,  an  orator  whom  to  hear  is  to  revive  all  the 
traditions  of  the  grace,  the  address,  the  command- 
ing sway  of  the  silver-tongued  eloquence  of  the  most 
renowned  speakers,  —  Wendell  Phillips. 


CHAPTER  III 
BOSTON  IN  WAR  TIMES 


We  sing  "Our  Country's"  song  to-night 

With  saddened  voice  and  eye; 
Her  banner  droops  in  clouded  light 

Beneath  the  wintry  sky. 
We'll  pledge  her  once  in  golden  wine 

Before  her  stars  have  set: 
Though  dim  one  reddening  orb  may  shine, 

We  have  a  Country  yet. 


CHAPTER   III 

BOSTON  IN  WAR  TIMES 

["War  Times"  found  Dr.  Holmes  an  intense  Union- 
ist and  patriot;  he  could  not  be  induced  to  join  working 
organizations,  but  he  plied  his  pen  ardently  for  his 
country's  cause;  he  produced  vivid  prose,  and  stirring 
war  lyrics;  and  his  eldest  son  was  among  the  first  to 
enlist. 

In  1861  he  wrote  Motley  of  conditions  then  prevail- 
ing in  Boston:] 

I  am  thankful  for  your  sake  that  you  are  out  of 
this  wretched  country.  There  was  never  anything 
in  our  experience  that  gave  any  idea  of  it  before. 
Not  that  we  have  any  material  suffering  as  yet. 
Our  factories  have  been  at  work,  and  our  dividends 
have  been  paid.  Society  —  in  Boston,  at  least  — has 
been  nearly  as  gay  as  usual.  I  had  a  few  thousand 
dollars  to  raise  to  pay  for  my  house  in  Charles 
Street,  and  sold  my  stocks  for  more  than  they 
cost  me.  We  have  had  predictions,  to  be  sure, 
that  New  England  was  to  be  left  out  in  the  cold 
if  a  new  confederacy  was  formed,  and  that  the  grass 
was  to  grow  in  the  streets  of  Boston.  But  prophets 

[  49  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

are  at  a  terrible  discount  in  these  times,  and  in 
spite  of  their  predictions  Merrimac  sells  at  $125. 
It  is  the  terrible  uncertainty  of  everything  —  most 
of  all,  the  uncertainty  of  the  opinion  of  men,  I  had 
almost  said  of  principles.  From  the  impracticable 
Abolitionist,  as  bent  on  total  separation  from  the 
South  as  Carolina  is  on  secession  from  the  North, 
to  a  Hunker,  or  Submissionist,  or  whatever  you 
choose  to  call  the  wretch  who  would  sacrifice  every- 
thing and  beg  the  South's  pardon  for  offending  it, 
you  find  all  shades  of  opinion  in  our  streets. 

[In  reply  to  some  criticisms  concerning  his  failure  to 
play  the  part  of  a  literary  reformer  he  exclaims :] 

You  blame  me  (kindly  always)  for  what  I  do  not 
do.  I  do  not  write  poems  or  introduce  passages 
stigmatizing  war  and  slavery  .  .  .  one  set  of  critics 
proscribe  me  for  being  serious  and  another  for  being 
gay,  you  will  take  neither  the  one  hand  nor  the  other 
with  good  grace,  because  I  am  not  philo-melanic  or 
miso-polemic  enough  to  meet  your  standard. 

I  supposed  that  you,  and  such  as  you,  would  feel 
that  I  had  taught  a  lesson  of  love,  and  would  thank 
me  for  it.  I  supposed  that  you  would  say  that  I  had 
tried  in  my  humble  way  to  adorn  some  of  this  com- 
mon life  that  surrounds  us,  with  colors  borrowed 

[  50  1 


Colonnade  Roiv,  Tremont  Street,  opposite  tJie  Common,  in  1860 


BOSTON   IN   WAR   TIMES 

from  the  imagination  and  the  feelings,  and  thank 
me  for  my  effort.  I  supposed  you  would  recognize  a 
glow  of  kindly  feeling  in  every  word  of  my  poor 
lesson  —  even  in  its  light  touches  of  satire,  which 
were  only  aimed  at  the  excesses  of  well-meaning 
people. 

I  am  sorry  that  I  have  failed  in  giving  you  pleas- 
ure because  I  have  omitted  two  subjects  on  which 
you  would  have  loved  to  hear  my  testimony.  .  .  . 
But  I  must  say,  with  regard  to  art  and  the  manage- 
ment of  my  own  powers,  I  think  I  shall  in  the  main 
follow  my  own  judgment  and  taste,  rather  than 
mould  myself  upon  those  of  others.  I  shall  follow 
the  bent  of  my  natural  thoughts,  which  grow  more 
grave  and  tender,  or  will  do  so  as  years  creep  over 
me.  I  shall  not  be  afraid  of  gaiety  more  than  of 
old,  but  I  shall  have  more  courage  to  be  serious. 
Above  all,  I  shall  always  be  pleased  rather  to  show 
what  is  beautiful  in  the  life  around  me  than  to  be 
pitching  into  giant  vices,  against  which  the  acrid 
pulpit  and  the  corrosive  newspaper  will  always  an- 
ticipate the  gentle  poet.  Each  of  us  has  his  theory 
of  life,  of  art,  of  his  own  existence  and  relations.  It 
is  too  much  to  ask  of  you  to  enter  fully  into  mine, 

[  51  ] 


DR.   HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

but  be  very  well  assured  that  it  exists,  —  that  it  has 
its  axioms,  its  intuitions,  its  connected  beliefs  as 
well  as  your  own.  Let  me  try  to  improve  and  please 
my  fellow-men  after  my  own  fashion  at  present. 

I  go  very  little  to  Society  and  Club  meetings. 
Some  feel  more  of  a  call  that  way,  others  less;  I 
among  the  least. 

I  hate  the  calling  of  meetings  to  order.  I  hate  the 
nomination  of  "officers,"  always  fearing  lest  I 
should  be  appointed  Secretary.  I  hate  being  placed 
on  committees.  They  are  always  having  meetings 
at  which  half  are  absent  and  the  rest  late.  I  hate 
being  officially  and  necessarily  in  the  presence  of 
men  most  of  whom,  either  from  excessive  zeal  in  the 
good  cause  or  from  constitutional  obtuseness,  are 
incapable  of  being  bored,  which  state  is  to  me  the 
most  exhausting  of  all  conditions,  absorbing  more 
of  my  life  than  any  kind  of  active  exertion  I  am 
capable  of  performing. 

I  am  slow  in  apprehending  parliamentary  rules 
and  usages,  averse  to  the  business  details  many  per- 
sons revel  in ;  and  I  am  not  in  love  with  most  of  the 
actively  stirring  people  whom  one  is  apt  to  meet  in 
all  associations  for  doing  good. 

[  52  1 


BOSTON   IN  WAR   TIMES 

Some  trees  grow  very  tall  and  straight  and  large 
in  the  forest  close  to  each  other,  but  some  must 
stand  by  themselves  or  they  won't  grow  at  all.  Ever 
since  I  used  to  go  to  the  "Institute  of  1770"  and 
hear  Bob  Rantoul  call  members  to  order,  and  to  the 
"Euphradian"  where  our  poor  Loring  used  to  be 
eloquent  about  Effie  Deans,  I  have  recognized  an 
inaptitude,  not  to  say  ineptitude,  belonging  to  me 
in  connection  with  all  such  proceedings. 

February  8, 1861,  is  said  to  have  been  the  coldest 
day  in  this  region  for  thirty-seven  years.  The  ther- 
mometer fell  to  from  12°  to  20°  below  zero  in  Boston, 
and  from  20°  to  30°  in  the  neighboring  towns.  You 
may  know  it  is  cold  when  you  see  people  clapping 
their  hands  to  their  ears,  and  hoisting  their  shoul- 
ders and  running.  I  see  them  on  the  long  West 
Boston  Bridge  every  winter  from  my  warm  home  at 
the  river's  edge  in  Boston.  I  am  afraid  with  the 
wicked  pleasure  that  Lucretius  speaks  of. 

I  know  rather  less  of  finance  than  you  do  of 
medicine.  ...  I  have  always  thought  that  if  I  had 
passed  a  year  or  two  in  a  counting-room  it  would 
have  gone  far  towards  making  a  sensible  man  of  me. 

[53  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

I  only  know  there  is  a  great  split  about  making 
government  paper  legal  tender,  and  if  I  could  see 
Bill  Gray  five  minutes  just  at  this  point,  I  could 
make  out  where  the  pinch  is,  and  what  kept  him 
awake  a  week  ago  as  I  hear  something  did,  thinking 
about  it. 

For  myself,  I  do  not  profess  to  have  any  political 
wisdom.  I  read,  I  listen,  I  judge  to  the  best  of  my 
ability.  ...  If  we  have  grown  unmanly  and  degen- 
erate in  the  north  wind,  I  am  willing  that  the  sirocco 
should  sweep  us  off  from  the  soil.  If  the  course  of 
nature  must  be  reversed  for  us,  and  the  Southern 
Goths  must  march  to  the  "beggarly  land  of  ice"  to 
overrun  and  recolonize  us,  I  have  nothing  to  object. 
But  I  have  a  most  solid  and  robust  faith  in  the 
sterling  manhood  of  the  North,  in  its  endurance, 
its  capacity  for  a  military  training,  its  plasticity  for 
every  need,  in  education,  in  political  equality,  in 
respect  for  man  as  man  in  peaceful  development, 
which  is  our  law,  in  distinction  from  aggressive  col- 
onization; in  human  qualities  as  against  "bestial and 
diabolical  ones"  in  the  Lord  as  against  the  Devil. 

If  I  never  see  peace  and  freedom  in  this  land,  I 
shall  have  faith  that  my  children  will  see  it.  If  they 

[  54  ] 


Daniel  Webster's  House,  at  the  corner  of  High  and  Summer  Streets 


BOSTON   IN   WAR   TIMES 

do  not  live  long  enough  to  see  it  I  believe  their  chil- 
dren will.  The  revelations  we  have  had  from  the 
Old  World  have  shed  a  new  light  for  us  on  feudal 
barbarism.  We  know  now  where  we  have  to  look  for 
sympathy.  But  oh!  it  would  have  done  your  heart 
good  to  see  the  processions  of  day  before  yesterday 
and  to-day,  the  air  all  aflame  with  flags,  the  streets 
shaking  with  the  tramp  of  long-stretched  lines,  and 
only  one  feeling  showing  itself,  the  passion  of  the 
first  great  uprising,  only  the  full  flower  of  which 
that  was  the  opening  bud. 

God  bless  the  Flag  and  its  loyal  defenders, 
While  its  broad  folds  o'er  the  battle-field  wave, 
Till  the  dim  star-wreath  rekindle  its  splendors, 
Washed  from  its  stains  in  the  blood  of  the  brave ! 

They  were  talking  in  the  cars  to-day  of  Fremont's 

speech  at  the  Tremont  Temple  last  evening.    His 

allusions  to  slavery  —  you  know  what  they  must 

have  been  —  were  received  with  an  applause  which 

they  would  never  have  gained  a  little  while  ago. 

Nay,   I   think   a  miscellaneous   Boston   audience 

would  be  more  like  to  cheer  any  denunciation  of 

slavery  now  than  almost  any  other  sentiment. 

Do  not  think  that  the  pluck  or  determination  of 
the  North  has  begun  to  yield.  There  never  was  such 

[55  1 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

a  universal  enthusiasm  for  the  defence  of  the  Union 
and  the  trampling  out  of  rebellion  as  at  this  perilous 
hour.  ...  I  won't  say  to  you  "be  of  good  courage," 
because  men  of  ideas  are  not  put  down  by  the  acci- 
dents of  a  day  or  a  year. 

You  remain  an  idealist,  as  all  generous  natures  do 
and  must.  I  sometimes  think  it  is  the  only  absolute 
line  of  division  between  men,  — that  which  separates 
the  men  who  hug  the  actual  from  those  who  stretch 
their  arms  to  embrace  the  possible.  I  reduce  my 
points  of  contact  with  the  first  class  to  a  minimum. 

You  know  better  than  I  do  the  contrivances  of 
that  detested  horde  of  mercenary  partisans  who 
would  in  a  moment  accept  Jeff  Davis,  the  slave- 
trade,  and  a  Southern  garrison  in  Boston,  to  get 
back  their  post-offices  and  their  custom-houses.  .  .  . 
The  mean  sympathizers  with  the  traitors  are  about 
in  the  streets  under  many  aspects.  You  can  gener- 
ally tell  the  more  doubtful  ones  by  the  circumstance 
that  they  have  a  great  budget  of  complaints  against 
the  government,  that  their  memory  is  exceedingly 
retentive  of  every  reverse  and  misfortune,  and  that 
they  have  the  small  end  of  their  opera-glasses  to- 

[5Q] 


BOSTON   IN   WAR  TIMES 

wards  everything  that  looks  encouraging.  I  do  not 
think  strange  of  this  in  old  men;  they  wear  their  old 
opinions  like  their  old  clothes,  until  they  are  thread- 
bare, and  we  need  them  as  standards  of  past  thought 
which  we  may  reckon  our  progress  by,  as  the  ship 
wants  her  stationary  log  to  tell  her  headway.  But 
to  meet  young  men  who  have  breathed  this  Ameri- 
can air  without  taking  the  contagious  fever  of  lib- 
erty, whose  hands  lie  as  cold  and  flabby  in  yours  as 
the  fins  of  a  fish,  on  the  morning  of  a  victory  —  this 
is  the  hardest  thing  to  bear. 

Oh,  if  the  bullets  would  only  go  to  the  hearts  that 
have  no  warm  human  blood  in  them!  But  the  most 
generous  of  our  youth  is  the  price  we  must  pay  for 
the  new  heaven,  and  the  new  earth  which  are  to  be 
born  of  this  fiery  upheaval.  I  think  one  of  the  most 
trying  things  of  a  struggle  like  this  is  the  painful 
revelation  of  the  meanness  which  lies  about  us  un- 
suspected. 

War  is  a  very  old  story,  but  it  is  a  new  one  to  this 
generation  of  Americans.  Our  own  nearest  relation 
in  the  ascending  line  remembers  the  Revolution 
well.  How  should  she  forget  it?  Did  she  not  lose  her 
doll,  which  was  left  behind  when  she  was  carried  out 
of  Boston,  about  that  time  growing  uncomfortable 

[57] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

by  reason  of  cannon-balls  dropping  in  from  the 
neighboring  heights  at  all  hours,  —  in  token  of 
which  see  the  tower  of  Brattle  Street  Church  at  this 
very  day?  War  in  her  memory  means  '76.  As  for 
the  brush  of  1812,  "we  did  not  think  much  about 
that " ;  and  everybody  knows  that  the  Mexican  busi- 
ness did  not  concern  us  much,  except  in  its  politi- 
cal relations.  No !  war  is  a  new  thing  to  us  who  are 
not  in  the  last  quarter  of  their  century. 

The  war  passion  burned  like  scattered  coals  of 

fire  in  the  households  of  Revolutionary  times;  now 

it  rushes  all  through  the  land  like  a  flame  over  the 

prairie. 

"  As  the  wild  tempest  wakes  the  slumbering  sea, 
Thou  only  teachest  all  that  man  can  be! " 

We  indulged  in  the  above  apostrophe  to  War  in  a 
Phi  Beta  Kappa  poem  of  long  ago.  .  .  .  Oftentimes, 
in  paroxysms  of  peace  and  good  will  towards  all 
mankind,  we  have  felt  twinges  of  conscience  about 
the  passage,  especially  when  one  of  our  orators 
showed  us  that  a  ship  of  war  costs  as  much  to  build 
and  to  keep  as  a  college,  and  that  every  port-hole 
we  could  stop  would  give  us  a  new  professor.  Now 
we  begin  to  think  there  was  some  meaning  in  our 

[58] 


BOSTON   IN   WAR  TIMES 

poor  couplet.  War  has  taught  us,  as  nothing  else 
could,  what  we  can  be  and  are.  It  has  exalted  our 
manhood  and  womanhood,  and  driven  us  all  back 
upon  our  substantial  human  qualities,  for  a  long 
time  more  or  less  kept  out  of  sight  by  the  spirit  of 
commerce,  the  love  of  art,  science,  or  literature,  or 
other  qualities  not  belonging  to  all  of  us  as  men  and 
women. 

Whatever  miseries  this  war  brings  upon  us,  it  is 
making  us  wiser,  and  we  trust  better.  W7iser,  for 
we  are  learning  our  weakness,  our  narrowness,  our 
selfishness,  our  ignorance,  in  lessons  of  sorrow  and 
shame.  Better,  because  all  that  is  noble  in  men  and 
women  is  demanded  by  the  time,  and  our  people 
are  rising  to  the  standard  the  time  calls  for.  For 
this  is  the  question  the  hour  is  putting  to  each  of  us. 
Are  you  ready,  if  need  be,  to  sacrifice  all  that  you 
have  and  hope  for  in  this  world,  that  the  generations 
to  follow  you  may  inherit  a  whole  country  whose 
natural  condition  shall  be  peace,  and  not  a  broken 
province  which  must  live  under  the  perpetual 
threat,  if  not  in  the  constant  presence,  of  war  and 
all  that  war  brings  with  it?  If  we  are  ready  for  this 
sacrifice,  battles  may  be  lost,  but  the  campaign  and 
its  grand  object  must  be  won. 

[59  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

[After  the  battle  of  Antietam  Dr.  Holmes  received 
a  message  that  his  son  Captain  Holmes  was  seriously 
wounded.] 

In  the  dead  of  night  which  closed  upon  the  bloody 
field  of  Antietam  my  household  was  startled  from 
its  slumbers  by  the  loud  summons  of  a  telegraphic 
messenger.  The  air  had  been  heavy  all  day  with 
the  rumors  of  battle,  and  thousands  and  tens  of 
thousands  had  walked  the  streets  with  throbbing 
hearts,  in  dread  anticipation  of  the  tidings  any  hour 
might  bring. 

We  rose  hastily,  and  presently  the  messenger  was 
admitted.  I  took  the  envelope  from  his  hand, 
opened  it,  and  read :  — 

Hagerstown,  17th. 
Capt.  H.  wounded  shot  through  the  neck  thought 
not  mortal  at  Keedysville. 

[Dr.  Holmes  immediately  set  out  upon  a  journey 
southward,  and  spent  many  days  in  vainly  searching 
the  hospitals  and  temporary  shelters  for  his  wounded 
son.  In  an  article  entitled  "My  Hunt  after  'The  Cap- 
tain,'" he  has  set  forth  his  quest  in  a  memorable  de- 
scription of  the  conditions  prevailing  after  the  terrible 
battle.] 

Was  it  possible  that  my  Captain  could  be  lying  on 
straw  in  one  of  these  places?  Certainly  it  was  pos- 

[60] 


West  Street  in  1860,  looking  toivards  Bedford  Street 


BOSTON   IN   WAR  TIMES 

sible,  but  not  probable;  but  as  the  lantern  was  held 
over  each  bed,  it  was  with  a  kind  of  thrill  that  I 
looked  upon  the  features  it  illuminated.  Many 
times  I  started  as  some  faint  resemblance,  —  the 
shade  of  a  young  man's  hair,  the  outline  of  his  half- 
turned  face,  —  recalled  the  presence  I  was  in  search 
of.  The  face  would  turn  towards  me,  and  the  mo- 
mentary illusion  would  pass  away,  but  still  the 
fancy  clung  to  me.  There  was  no  figure  huddled  up 
on  its  rude  couch,  none  stretched  at  the  roadside, 
none  toiling  languidly  along  the  dusty  pike,  none 
passing  in  car  or  in  ambulance,  that  I  did  not  scru- 
tinize as  if  it  might  be  that  for  which  I  was  making 
my  pilgrimage  to  the  battle-field. 

[Dr.  Holmes  missed  the  young  Captain,  who  was  travel- 
ling homeward  by  slow  stages,  and  their  meeting  at  last 
upon  the  train  is  characteristically  described  by  him.} 

The  expected  train  came  in  so  quietly  that  I  was 
almost  startled  to  see  it  on  the  track.  Let  us  walk 
calmly  through  the  cars,  and  look  around  us. 

In  the  first  car,  on  the  fourth  seat  to  the  right,  I 
saw  my  Captain;  there  I  saw  him,  even  my  first- 
born, whom  I  had  sought  through  many  cities. 

"How  are  you  Boy?" 

"How  are  you,  Dad?" 

[61  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

Such  are  the  proprieties  of  life,  as  they  are  ob- 
served among  us  Anglo-Saxons  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  decently  disguising  those  natural  impulses 
that  made  Joseph,  the  Prime  Minister  of  Egypt, 
weep  aloud  so  that  the  Egyptians  and  the  house  of 
Pharaoh  heard,  —  nay,  which  had  once  overcome 
his  shaggy  old  uncle  Esau  so  entirely  that  he  fell  on 
his  brother's  neck  and  cried  like  a  baby  in  the  pres- 
ence of  all  the  women. 

On  Monday  morning,  the  twenty-ninth  of  Sep- 
tember, we  took  the  cars  for  home.  .  .  . 

Fling  open  the  window-blinds  of  the  chamber 
that  looks  out  on  the  waters  and  towards  the  western 
sun !  Let  the  joyous  light  shine  in  upon  the  pictures 
that  hang  upon  its  walls,  and  the  shelves  thick-set 
with  the  names  of  poets  and  philosophers  and  sacred 
teachers,  in  whose  pages  our  boys  learn  that  life  is 
noble  only  when  it  is  held  cheap  by  the  side  of  honor 
and  of  duty.  Lay  him  on  his  bed,  and  let  him  sleep 
off  his  aches  and  weariness.  So  comes  down  another 
night  over  this  household,  unbroken  by  any  mes- 
senger of  evil  tidings,  —  a  night  of  peaceful  rest  and 
grateful  thoughts;  for  this  our  son  and  brother  was 
dead  and  is  alive  again,  and  was  lost  and  is  found. 

[  62  ] 


BOSTON   IN   WAR   TIMES 

Lord  of  all  being !  throned  afar, 
Thy  glory  flames  from  sun  and  star; 
Centre  and  soul  of  every  sphere, 
Yet  to  each  loving  heart  how  near ! 

Our  midnight  is  thy  smile  withdrawn; 
Our  noontide  is  thy  gracious  dawn; 
Our  rainbow  arch  thy  mercy's  sign; 
All,  save  the  clouds  of  sin,  are  thine! 

[On  the  4th  of  July,  1863,  Dr.  Holmes  delivered  a 
stirring  Oration  before  the  Authorities  of  Boston.  He 
closed  this  splendid  address  with  the  words:] 

Citizens  of  Boston,  sons  and  daughters  of  New 
England,  men  and  women  of  the  North,  brothers 
and  sisters  in  the  bond  of  American  Union,  you 
have  among  you  the  scarred  and  wasted  soldiers 
who  have  shed  their  blood  for  your  temporal  salva- 
tion. They  bore  your  nation's  emblems  bravely 
through  the  fire  and  smoke  of  the  battle-field;  nay, 
their  own  bodies  are  starred  with  bullet-wounds  and 
striped  with  sabre-cuts,  as  if  to  mark  them  as  be- 
longing to  their  country  until  their  dust  becomes  a 
portion  of  the  soil  which  they  defended.  In  every 
Northern  graveyard  slumber  the  victims  of  this 
destroying  struggle.  Many  whom  you  remember 
playing  as  children  amidst  the  clover-blossoms  of 

[63  ] 


DR.   HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

our  Northern  fields,  sleep  under  nameless  mounds 
with  strange  Southern  wild-flowers  blooming  over 
them.  By  those  wounds  of  living  heroes,  by  those 
graves  of  fallen  martyrs,  by  the  hopes  of  your  chil- 
dren yet  unborn,  and  the  claims  of  your  children's 
children  yet  unborn,  in  the  name  of  outraged  honor, 
in  the  interest  of  violated  sovereignty,  for  the  life  of 
an  imperilled  nation,  for  the  sake  of  men  every- 
where and  of  our  common  humanity,  for  the  glory 
of  God  and  the  advancement  of  his  kingdom  on 
earth,  your  country  calls  upon  you  to  stand  by  her 
through  good  report  and  through  evil  report,  in 
triumph  and  in  defeat,  until  she  emerges  from  the 
great  war  of  Western  civilization,  Queen  of  the 
broad  continent,  Arbitress  in  the  councils  of  earth's 
emancipated  peoples;  until  the  flag  that  fell  from 
the  wall  of  Fort  Sumter  floats  again  inviolate,  su- 
preme, over  all  her  ancient  inheritance,  every  for- 
tress, every  capital,  every  ship,  and  this  warring 
land  is  once  more  a  United  Nation! 

Flag  of  the  heroes  who  left  us  their  glory, 

Borne  through  their  battle-fields'  thunder  and  flame, 
Blazoned  in  song  and  illumined  in  story, 
Wave  o'er  us  all  who  inherit  their  fame! 
Up  with  our  banner  bright, 
Sprinkled  with  starry  light, 

[  64  ] 


BOSTON   IN  WAR  TIMES 

Spread  its  fair  emblems  from  mountain  to  shore, 

While  through  the  sounding  sky 

Loud  rings  the  Nation's  cry,  — 
Union  and  Liberty!  One  Evermore! 


CHAPTER  IV 
THE  COLISEUM  AND  THE  BOSTON  FIRE 

1869-1872 


(Sung  at  the  "Jubilee"  June  15, 1869,  to  the  music  of  Keller's  "American 
Hymn.") 

Angel  of  Peace,  thou  hast  wandered  too  long ! 

Spread  thy  white  wings  to  the  sunshine  of  love ! 
Come  while  our  voices  are  blended  in  song,  — 

Fly  to  our  ark  like  the  storm-beaten  dove!  — 
Fly  to  our  ark  on  the  wings  of  the  dove,  — 

Speed  o'er  the  far-sounding  billows  of  song, 
Crowned  with  thine  olive-leaf  garland  of  love,  — 

Angel  of  Peace,  thou  hast  waited  too  long! 


CHAPTER    IV 

THE  COLISEUM  AND  THE  BOSTON  FIRE 
1869-1872 

[The  great  "  Peace  Jubilee  "  of  1869  was  an  epoch- 
making  occurrence  in  Boston.  It  was  pronounced  by 
Dr.  Holmes:  "a  mighty  success";  "a  sensation  of  a 
lifetime";  he  wrote  of  it  to  Motley  in  glowing  terms.] 

We  have  had  the  Coliseum  fever,  and  happily  re- 
covered. It  was  a  grand  affair,  I  assure  you.  I 
doubt  if  forty  thousand  people  were  ever  seen  be- 
fore under  one  unbroken  continuity  of  roof,  in  a 
single  honest  parallelogram.  I  will  give  you  its 
dimensions,  as  compared  with  the  Coliseum  at 
Rome,  —  which  last  building  had  velaria,  very 
probably,  for  emperors,  ambassadors,  and  such,  but 
had  no  proper  roof.  The  audience  was  truly  a  won- 
derful sight,  and  the  vast  orchestra  and  chorus, 
though  not  deafening,  as  many  expected,  was  al- 
most oceanic  in  the  volume  of  its  surges  and  billows. 
I  wrote  a  hymn  for  it  which  Amory  told  me,  two 
days  ago,  I  had  not  been  praised  enough  for. 

[At  this  same  period  he  describes  the  new  statue  of 
Washington  which  he  suggests  needs  to  be  turned  about 
in  order  to  face  the  city  of  Boston.] 

[69] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

We  have  got  a  grand  new  equestrian  statue  of 
George  Washington,  "first  in  war,"  etc.,  in  the 
Public  Garden.  It  reminds  me  of  Rauch's  statue  of 
Frederic  at  Berlin,  which  I  never  saw,  except  in  a 
glass  stereograph  —  almost  as  good,  however,  as 
the  statue  itself.  It  faces  down  Commonwealth 
Avenue,  as  if  he  were  riding  out  of  Boston.  I  won- 
der we  have  not  had  an  epigram,  in  some  New  York 
paper,  to  the  effect  that  he  is  turning  his  horse's 
tail  to  us.  They  can  turn  it  about,  however,  as  they 
have  done  with  Everett's.  I  suppose  you  [John 
Lothrop  Motley]  will  be  in  bronze  one  of  these  days, 
—  but  I  hope  they  will  make  you  face  Boston.  This 
new  and  first  equestrian  statue  we  have  seen  here  is 
generally  admired.  I  think  it  is  admirable  in  its 
effect,  and  I  have  not  heard  any  but  favorable 
criticisms  so  far.  So  you  see,  what  with  her  Coli- 
seum, and  its  thousand  instruments  and  ten  thou- 
sand singers,  and  its  "man  on  horseback"  (what  a 
wonderfully  picturesque  generalization  that  was  of 
Caleb  Cushing's),  and  its  two  members  of  the  Cabi- 
net and  Minister  to  England,  our  little  town  of 
Boston  feels  as  good  as  any  place  of  its  size,  to  say 
nothing  of  bigger  ones. 

[When  the  friends  of  the  rival  claimants  of  the  dis- 
[70] 


The  Coliseum  of  the  Peace  Jubilee  of  1869 


THE    COLISEUM 

covery  of  anaesthesia  were  proposing  monuments  for 
each,  Holmes  suggested  that  all  should  unite  in  erecting 
a  single  memorial,  with  a  central  group  symbolizing 
painless  surgery,  a  statue  of  Jackson  on  one  side,  a 
statue  of  Morton  on  the  other  and  the  inscription  be- 
neath: "To  E  (i)  ther."] 

I  am  going  to  send  you  my  Halleck  poem  .  .  .  and 

one  or  two  other  trifles.    They  will  have  a  home 

flavor,  I  know,  and  you  will  get  a  whiff  of  Boston 

and  Cambridge  associations  out  of  them,  if  nothing 

else,  —  just  as  Mr.  Ho  wells  told  me,  coming  out  in 

the  cars,  yesterday,  that  the  smell  of  the  Back  Bay 

salt  water  brought  back  Venice  to  him. 

[The  Humboldt  Centennial  celebration,  which  took 
place  on  September  14,  1869,  of  which  Holmes  wrote, 
was  a  feature  of  importance  in  Boston.] 

September,  1868. 
This  last  week  we  had  a  Humboldt  celebration, 
or  rather  two,  in  Boston.  One  in  which  Agassiz 
was  the  orator,  the  other  in  which  a  German  — 
Heinzel  by  name  —  was  speaker.  Agassiz  did  him- 
self credit  by  a  succinct  account  of  Humboldt's  life 
and  labors,  and  interesting  anecdotes  of  his  per- 
sonal relations  with  him.  He  was  in  great  trouble  all 
the  time.  Curious  hint  for  public  speakers  who  use 
glasses.    I  sat  next  to  Charles  Sumner.    "Agassiz 

[71] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

has  made  a  mistake,"  he  said;  "he  has  eye-glasses; 
he  ought  to  have  spectacles.  In  three  or  four  min- 
utes his  skin  will  get  moist  and  they  will  slip  and 
plague  him."  They  did  not  in  "three  or  four  min- 
utes," but  in  the  last  part  of  his  address  they  gave 
him  a  good  deal  of  trouble  keeping  one  hand  busy 
all  the  time  to  replace  them  as  they  slid  down  his 
nose.  Remember  this  if  you  have  occasion  to  speak 
an  hour  or  two  before  an  audience  in  a  warm  room. 
Of  course  I  wrote  a  poem,  which  I  had  the  wonder- 
ful sense  to  positively  refuse  delivering  in  Music 
Hall  after  the  long  Address  of  Agassiz,  but  read  at 
the  soiree  afterwards.  I  thought  well  of  it,  as  I  am 
apt  to,  and  others  liked  it. 

His  was  no  taper  lit  in  cloistered  cage, 

Its  glimmer  borrowed  from  the  grove  or  porch; 

He  read  the  record  of  the  planet's  page 
By  Etna's  glare  and  Cotopaxi's  torch. 

He  heard  the  voices  of  the  pathless  woods; 

On  the  salt  steppes  he  saw  the  starlight  shine; 
He  scaled  the  mountain's  windy  solitudes, 

And  trod  the  galleries  of  the  breathless  mine. 

For  God's  new  truth  he  claimed  the  kingly  robe 
That  priestly  shoulders  counted  all  their  own, 

Unrolled  the  gospel  of  the  storied  globe 
And  led  young  Science  to  her  empty  throne. 

[  72  ] 


THE   COLISEUM 

Longfellow  has  got  home,  not  looking  younger 
certainly,  but  luminous  with  gentle  graces  as  always. 
.  .  .  Walking  on  the  bridge  two  or  three  weeks  ago, 

I  met  a  barouche  with  Miss  G and  a  portly 

mediaeval  gentleman  at  her  side.  I  thought  it  was  a 
ghost,  almost,  when  the  barouche  stopped  and  out 
jumped  Tom  Appleton  in  the  flesh,  and  plenty  of 
it,  as  aforetime  .  We  embraced  —  or  rather  he  em- 
braced me  and  I  partially  spanned  his  goodly  cir- 
cumference. He  has  been  twice  here  —  the  last 
time  he  took  tea  and  stayed  till  near  eleven,  pouring 
out  all  the  time  such  a  torrent  of  talk,  witty,  enter- 
taining, audacious,  ingenious,  sometimes  extrava- 
gant, but  fringed  always  with  pleasing  fancies  as 
deep  as  the  border  of  a  Queen's  cashmere,  that  my 
mind  came  out  of  it  as  my  body  would  out  of  a 
Turkish  bath  —  every  joint  snapped  and  its  hard 
epidermis  taken  clean  off  in  that  four  hours'  immer- 
sion. 

So  you  see  I  have  only  told  you  of  small  local  and 
personal  matters,  not  so  well  as  a  lively  woman 
would  have  done,  but  as  they  came  up  to  my  mind. 
I  read  somewhere  lately  a  letter  of  a  great  personage 
then  abroad  —  I  think  it  was  old  John  Adams  —  in 
which  he  begs  for  a  letter  full  of  trifling  home-mat- 

[  73  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

ters.  He  gets  enough  that  strains  him  to  read,  and 
he  wants  undress  talk.  I  can  tell  you  nothing  of  the 
large  world  you  will  not  get  better  from  other  cor- 
respondents, but  I  can  talk  to  you  of  places  and 
persons  and  topics  of  limited  interest  which  will 
perhaps  give  you  five  minutes  of  Boston,  and  be  as 
refreshing  as  a  yawn  and  stretch  after  being  fixed 
an  hour  in  one  position. 

April,  1870. 
I  have  been  well  enough  of  late,  and  went  to  a 

dinner-party  at  Mrs. 's  yesterday,  and  a  kind 

of  soiree  she  had  after  it.  This  good  lady  (who  is  a 
distant  relation  of  Mrs.  Leo  Hunter)  had  bagged 
Mr.  Fechter,  who  has  been  turning  the  heads  of  the 
Boston  women  and  girls  with  his  Hamlets  and 
Claude  Melnottes.  A  pleasant,  intelligent  man,  — 
but  Boston  furores  are  funny.  The  place  is  just  of 
the  right  size  for  sesthetic  endemics,  and  they  spare 
neither  age  nor  sex  —  among  the  women,  that  is, 
for  we  have  man-women  and  woman-women  here, 
you  know.  It  reminds  me  of  the  time  we  had  when 
Jefferson  was  here,  but  Fechter  is  feted  off  the  stage 
as  much  as  he  is  applauded  on  it.  I  have  only  seen 
him  in  Hamlet,  in  which  he  interested  rather  than 

[74  ] 


THE   COLISEUM 

overwhelmed  rne.  But  his  talk  about  Rachel  and 
the  rest  with  whom  he  has  played  so  much  was 
mighty  pleasant. 

December,  1871. 
At  this  moment,  as  I  write,  a  flock  of  a  hundred 
or  more  wild  ducks  are  swimming  about  and  diving 
in  a  little  pool  in  the  midst  of  the  ice,  for  the  river 
has  just  frozen  over  again,  and  the  thermometer 
was  at  zero  yesterday.  I  think  you  would  call  my 
library  a  pleasant  room,  even  after  all  the  fine  resi- 
dences you  have  seen.  I  do  not  think  the  two  famous 
Claudes  of  Longford  Castle,  with  the  best  picture 
Turner  ever  painted  between  them,  would  pay  me 
for  my  three  windows  which  look  over  the  estuary 
of  Charles  River.  But  you  know  I  have  the  faculty 
of  being  pleased  with  everything  that  is  mine. 

Through  my  north  window,  in  the  wintry  weather,  — 

My  airy  oriel  on  the  river  shore,  — 
I  watch  the  sea-fowl  as  they  flock  together 

Where  late  the  boatman  flashed  his  dripping  oar. 

I  see  the  solemn  gulls  in  council  sitting 

On  some  broad  ice-floe  pondering  long  and  late, 

While  overhead  the  home-bound  ducks  are  flitting, 
And  leave  the  tardy  concave  in  debate. 

[  75  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

How  often  gazing  where  a  bird  reposes, 

Rocked  on  the  wavelets,  dripping  with  the  tide, 

I  lose  myself  in  strange  metempsychosis 
And  float  a  sea-fowl  at  a  sea-fowl's  side. 

A  voice  recalls  me.  —  From  my  window  turning 

I  find  myself  a  plumeless  biped  still; 
No  beak,  no  claws,  so  sign  of  wings  discerning, 

In  fact  with  nothing  bird-like  but  my  quill. 

[At  this  time,  1870,  the  accession  of  Harvard' s  new 
president  was  a  matter  of  much  interest.] 

Our  new  President  Eliot  has  turned  the  whole 
University  over  like  a  flapjack.  There  never  was  such 
a  bouleversement  as  that  in  our  Medical  Faculty. 
The  Corporation  has  taken  the  whole  management 
out  of  our  hands  and  changed  everything.  We  are 
paid  salaries,  which  I  rather  like,  though  I  doubt  if 
we  gain  in  pocket  by  it.  We  have,  partly  in  conse- 
quence of  outside  pressure,  remodelled  our  whole 
course  of  instruction.  Consequently  we  have  a 
smaller  class,  but  better  students,  each  of  whom 
pays  more  than  under  the  old  plan  of  manage- 
ment. 

It  is  so  curious  to  see  a  young  man  like  Eliot, 
with  an  organizing  brain,  a  firm  will,  a  grave,  calm, 
dignified  presence,  taking  the  ribbons  of  our  classi- 

[76] 


THE   COLISEUM 

cal  coach  and  six,  feeling  the  horses'  mouths,  put- 
ting a  check  on  this  one's  capers  and  touching  that 
one  with  the  lash,  —  turning  up  everywhere,  in 
every  Faculty  (I  belong  to  three),  on  every  public 
occasion  at  every  dinner  orne,  and  taking  it  all  as 
naturally  as  if  he  had  been  born  President.  In  the 
mean  time  Yale  has  chosen  a  Connecticut  country 
minister,  Get.  60,  as  her  President,  and  the  experi- 
ment of  liberal  culture  with  youth  at  the  helm  ver- 
sus orthodox  repression  with  a  graybeard  Palinurus 
is  going  on  in  a  way  that  it  is  impossible  to  look  at 
without  interest  in  seeing  how  the  experiment  will 
turn  out. 

I  suppose  E has  told  you  all   about  the 

Grand  Duke's  visit  and  the  stir  it  made  in  our  little 
city.  You  are  so  used  to  great  folks  that  a  Grand 
Duke  is  not  more  to  you  than  a  Giant  or  a  Dwarf 
is  to  Barnum;  but  we  had  not  had  a  sensation  for 
some  time,  and  this  splendid  young  man  —  for  he  is 
a  superb  specimen  —  produced  great  effect.  I  sup- 
pose you  get  the  Boston  papers  sometimes  and  read 
what  your  fellow-citizens  are  doing.  The  dinner  the 
gentlemen  (gave)  was  a  handsome  one  —  thirty-five 
dollars  a  plate  ought  to  pay  for  what  the  Californ- 
ians  call  a  "square  meal."  Speeches  and  a  poem,  of 

[  77  J 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

course  —  blush  for  me !  —  the  whole  affair  was  a 
success,  with  one  or  two  fiascos. 

[Holmes  wrote  to  his  friend  Motley  a  graphic  de- 
scription of  the  great  Boston  fire  of  1872.] 

The  recollection  of  the  Great  Fire  will  always  be 
associated  with  a  kindly  thought  of  yourself  in  my 
memory.  For  on  Saturday,  the  9th  of  November, 
your  sister  Mrs.  S.  Rodman,  sent  me  a  package  of 
little  Dutch  story-books,  which  you  had  been  so 
good  as  to  procure  for  me.  You  have  no  idea  with 
what  childlike,  or  if  you  will  childish,  interest  I 
looked  at  those  little  story-books.  I  was  sitting  in 
my  library,  my  wife  opposite,  somewhere  near  nine 
o'clock,  perhaps,  when  I  heard  the  fire-bells  and  left 
the  Dutch  picture-books,  which  I  was  very  busy 
with  (trying  to  make  out  the  stories  with  the  aid  of 
the  pictures,  which  was  often  quite  easy) ,  and  went 
to  the  north  window.  Nothing  there.  We  see  a  good 
many  fires  in  the  northern  hemisphere,  which  our 
windows  command,  and  always  look,  when  we  hear 
an  alarm,  towards  Charlestown,  East  Cambridge, 
Cambridge,  and  the  towns  beyond.  Seeing  nothing 
in  that  direction  I  went  to  the  windows  on  Beacon 
Street,  and  looking  out  saw  a  column  of  light  which 
I  thought  might  come  from  the  neighborhood  of  the 

[78] 


THE   BOSTON   FIRE 

corner  of  Boy  1st  on  and  Tremont  Streets,  where 
stands  one  of  the  finest  edifices  in  Boston,  the 
"  Hotel  Boylston,"  put  up  by  Charles  Francis 
Adams.  The  fire  looked  so  formidable,  I  went  out, 
thinking  I  would  go  to  Commonwealth  Avenue  to 
get  a  clear  view  of  it.  As  I  went  in  that  direction  I 
soon  found  I  was  approaching  a  great  conflagration. 
There  was  no  getting  very  near  the  fire;  but  that 
night  and  the  next  morning  I  saw  it  dissolving  the 
great  high  buildings,  which  seemed  to  melt  away  in 
it.  My  son  Wendell  made  a  remark  which  I  found 
quite  true,  that  great  walls  would  tumble  and  yet 
one  would  hear  no  crash,  —  they  came  down  as  if 
they  had  fallen  on  a  vast  feather-bed.  Perhaps,  as 
he  thought,  the  air  was  too  full  of  noises  for  us  to 
note  what  would  have  been  in  itself  a  startling  crash. 
I  hovered  round  the  Safety  Vaults  in  State  Street, 
where  I  had  a  good  deal  of  destructible  property  of 
my  own  and  others,  but  no  one  was  allowed  to  en- 
ter them.  So  I  saw  (on  Sunday  morning)  the  fire 
eating  its  way  straight  toward  my  deposits,  and 
millions  of  others  with  them,  and  thought  how  I 
should  like  it  to  have  them  wiped  out  with  that  red 
flame  that  was  coming  along  clearing  everything 
before  it.   But  I  knew  all  was  doing  that  could  be 

[79  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S  BOSTON 
done,  and  so  I  took  it  quietly  enough,  and  managed 
to  sleep  both  Saturday  and  Sunday  nights  tolerably 
well,  though  I  got  up  every  now  and  then  to  see  how 
far  and  fast  the  flames  were  spreading  northward. 
Before  Sunday  night,  however,  they  were  tolerably 
well  in  hand,  so  far  as  I  could  learn,  and  on  Monday 
all  the  world  within  reach  was  looking  at  the  wilder- 
ness of  ruins. 

To-day,  Saturday,  I  went  with  my  wife  to  the 
upper  story  of  Hovey's  store  on  Summer  Street,  a 
great  establishment,  —  George  Gardner,  you  re- 
member, owns  the  building,  —  which  was  almost 
miraculously  saved.  The  scene  from  the  upper  win- 
dows was  wonderful  to  behold.  Right  opposite, 
Trinity  Church,  its  tower  standing,  its  walls  partly 
fallen,  more  imposing  as  a  ruin  than  it  ever  was  in 
its  best  estate,  —  everything  flat  to  the  water,  so 
that  we  saw  the  ships  in  the  harbor  as  we  should 
have  done  from  the  same  spot  in  the  days  of  Black- 
stone  (if  there  had  been  ships  then  and  no  trees  in 
the  way),  here  and  there  a  tall  chimney,  —  two  or 
three  brick  piers  for  safes,  one  with  a  safe  standing 
on  it  as  calm  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  —  piles  of 
smoking  masonry,  the  burnt  stump  of  the  flagstaff 

[80] 


f         jjfl!  I   !  .!  I  \ 
LiliiiillTii  f  flf  !l  !i~! 


The  Boston  Fire  of  November  9-10,  1872 


-iimiBirihriini  |j 


THE   BOSTON   FIRE 

in  Franklin  Street,  groups  of  people  looking  to  see 
where  their  stores  were,  or  hunting  for  their  safes, 
or  round  a  fire-engine  which  was  playing  on  the 
ruins  that  covered  a  safe,  to  cool  thern,  so  it  could 
be  got  out,  —  cordons  of  military  and  of  the  police 
keeping  off  the  crowds  of  people  who  have  flocked 
from  all  over  the  country,  etc.,  etc.  .  .  .  Everybody 
seems  to  bear  up  cheerfully  and  hopefully  against 
the  disaster,  and  the  only  thought  seems  to  be  how 
best  and  soonest  to  repair  damages. 

Things  are  going  on  pretty  regularly.  Froude  is 
here  lecturing;  I  went  to  hear  him  Thursday,  and 
was  interested. . .  .  After  the  lecture  we  had  a  pleas- 
ant meeting  of  the  Historical  Society  at  Mr.  J.  A. 
Lowell's,  where  Froude  was  present.  Winthrop 
read  a  long  and  really  very  interesting  account  of 
the  fires  which  had  happened  in  Boston  since  its 
settlement,  beginning  with  Cotton  Mather's  ac- 
count of  different  ones,  and  coming  down  to  the 
"Great  Fire"  of  1760.  Much  of  what  he  read  I  find 
in  Drake's  "History  of  Boston,"  from  which  I  also 
learn  that  the  "Great  Fire"  began  in  the  house  of 
Mrs.  Mary  Jackson  and  Son  at  the  sign  of  the  Bra- 
zen Head  in  Cornhill,  and  that  all  the  buildings  on 

[81  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

Colonel  Wendell's  wharf  were  burned.  My  mother 
used  to  tell  me  that  her  grandfather  (Col.  W.)  lost 
forty  buildings  in  that  fire,  which  always  made  me 
feel  grand,  as  being  the  descendant  of  one  that  hath 
had  losses,  —  in  fact  makes  me  feel  a  little  grand 
now,  in  telling  you  of  it.  Most  people's  grandfathers 
in  Boston,  to  say  nothing  of  their  great-grand-fa- 
thers, got  their  living  working  in  their  shirt-sleeves, 
but  when  a  man's  g.g.  lost  forty  buildings,  it  is 
almost  up  to  your  sixteen  quarterings  that  you 
know  so  much  about  in  your  Austrian  experience. 

O  vision  of  that  sleepless  night, 

What  hue  shall  paint  the  mocking  light 

That  burned  and  stained  the  orient  skies 

Where  peaceful  morning  loves  to  rise, 

As  if  the  sun  had  lost  his  way 

And  dawned  to  make  a  second  day,  — 

Above  how  red  with  fiery  glow, 

How  dark  to  those  it  woke  below ! 

On  roof  and  wall,  on  dome  and  spire, 
Flashed  the  false  jewels  of  the  fire; 
Girt  with  her  belt  of  glittering  panes, 
And  crowned  with  starry-gleaming  vanes, 
Our  northern  queen  in  glory  shone 
With  new-born  splendors  not  her  own, 
And  stood,  transfigured  in  our  eyes, 
A  victim  decked  for  sacrifice ! 

[  82  ] 


THE   BOSTON   FIRE 

The  cloud  still  hovers  overhead, 

And  still  the  midnight  sky  is  red; 

As  the  lost  wanderer  strays  alone 

To  seek  the  place  he  called  his  own, 

His  devious  footprints  sadly  tell 

How  changed  the  pathways  known  so  well; 

The  scene,  how  new !  The  tale,  how  old 

Ere  yet  the  ashes  have  grown  cold ! 

[In  the  summer  of  1873,  Holmes  writes  to  Motley 
from  the  resort  which  was  christened  by  his  friend 
Appleton,  "  Cold  roast  Boston."] 

May  I  gossip  a  few  minutes?  I  write,  you  see, 
from  Nahant,  where  I  have  been  during  July  and 
August,  staying  with  my  wife  in  the  cottage  you 
must  remember  as  Mr.  Charles  Amory's.  ...  So  I 
have  been  here,  as  I  said,  playing  cuckoo  in  the  nest, 
with  my  wife,  who  enjoys  Nahant  much  more  than 
I  do  —  having  had  more  or  less  of  asthma  to  take 
off  from  my  pleasures.  Still,  there  has  been  much 
that  is  agreeable,  and  as  a  change  from  city  life  I 
have  found  it  a  kind  of  refreshment. 

Many  of  your  old  friends  are  our  neighbors. 
Longfellow  is  hard  by,  with  Tom  Appleton  in  the 
same  house,  and  for  a  fortnight  or  so  Sumner  as 
his  guest.  Sumner,  who  was  very  nearly  killed  and 
buried  by  the  newspapers,  seems  as  well  as  ever, 

[  83  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

and  gave  us  famous  accounts  of  what  he  did  and 
saw  in  England.  ...  I  have  dined  since  I  have  been 
here  at  Mr.  George  Peabody's  with  Longfellow, 
Sumner,  Appleton,  and  William  Amory;  at  Cabot 
Lodge's  with  nearly  the  same  company;  at  Mr. 
James's  with  L.  and  S.,  and  at  Longfellow's  en 
famille,  pretty  nearly.  Very  pleasant  dinners.  .  .  . 
Nahant  is  a  gossipy  Little  Peddington  kind  of  a 
place.  As  Alcibiades  and  his  dog  are  not  here,  they 
are  prattling  and  speculating  and  worrying  about 
the  cost  of  Mr.  J 's  new  house,  which,  exter- 
nally at  least,  is  the  handsomest  country  house  I  ever 
saw,  and  is  generally  allowed  to  be  a  great  success. 
The  inside  is  hardly  finished,  except  the  hall  and  the 
dining-room,  which  are  very  fine.  .  .  .  On  Monday 
we  go  back  to  Boston  after  two  months'  stay. 

[In  the  following  spring  he  again  writes  to  Motley.] 

I  have  come  down  —  or  got  up  —  to  dinner- 
parties as  the  substantial  basis  of  my  social  life. 
They  have  slacked  off  (Novanglice)  of  late,  so  that 
I  am  now  as  domestic  as  a  gallinaceous  fowl,  in 
place  of  chirruping  and  flitting  from  bough  to  bough. 

In  the  mean  time  I  have  my  little  grandchild  to 
remind  me  I  must  not  think  too  much  of  the  pomps 

[  84  ] 


THE   BOSTON   FIRE 

and  vanities  of  the  world,  with  two  generations 
crowding  me  along.  .  .  .  We  are  all  well,  and  living 
along  in  our  quiet  way  with  as  much  comfort  as  we 
have  any  right  to,  and  more  than  most  people  have 
to  content  themselves  with.  I  have  only  one  trouble 
I  cannot  get  rid  of,  namely,  that  they  tease  me  to 
write  for  every  conceivable  anniversary.  I  wrote  a 
hymn  which  was  sung  at  the  delivery  of  Schurz's 
Eulogy.  Waldo  Higginson  came  this  afternoon  to 
get  me  to  write  a  hymn  for  the  dedication  —  no  — 
the  opening  or  completion,  of  the  Memorial  Hall. 
You  remember  Sydney  Smith's  John  Bull  —  how 
he  "blubbers  and  subscribes,"  —  I  scold  and  con- 
sent. 

(DEDICATION   OF  MEMORIAL  HALL,   JUNE  23,   1874) 

Where,  girt  around  by  savage  foes, 
Our  nurturing  Mother's  shelter  rose, 
Behold,  the  lofty  temple  stands, 
Reared  by  her  children's  grateful  hands! 

Firm  are  the  pillars  that  defy 
The  volleyed  thunders  of  the  sky; 
Sweet  are  the  summer  wreaths  that  twine 
With  bud  and  flower  our  martyrs'  shrine. 

The  hues  their  tattered  colors  bore 
Fall  mingling  on  the  sunlit  floor 

[85  ] 


DR.   HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

Till  evening  spreads  her  spangled  pall, 
And  wraps  in  shade  the  storied  hall. 

Firm  were  their  hearts  in  danger's  hour, 
Sweet  was  their  manhood's  morning  flower, 
Their  hopes  with  rainbow  hues  were  bright,  — 
How  swiftly  winged  the  sudden  night! 

O  Mother!  on  thy  marble  page 
Thy  children  read,  from  age  to  age, 
The  mighty  word  that  upward  leads 
Through  noble  thought  to  nobler  deeds. 

[In  July,  1874,  Holmes  writes  of  a  summer  spent  in 
Boston.] 

We  are  living  in  a  desert.  I  feel,  as  I  walk  down 
Beacon  Street,  as  if  I  were  Lord  Macaulay's  New 
Zealander.  I  expect  to  start  a  fox  or  a  woodchuck 
as  I  turn  through  Clarendon  or  Dartmouth  Street, 
and  to  hear  the  whir  of  the  partridge  in  Common- 
wealth Avenue.  The  truth  is  I  have  no  country 
place  of  my  own,  and  we  are  so  much  more  comfort- 
able in  our  own  house  here  that  we  can  hardly  make 
up  our  minds  to  go  to  any  strange  place  in  the  coun- 
try, or  by  the  seashore. 

You  think  I  am  wedded  to  the  pavement.  True, 
but  I  am  also  passionately  fond  of  the  country, 
only  I  am  so  liable  to  suffer  from  asthma  when  I  get 

[86] 


THE   BOSTON   FIRE 

off  the  brick  sidewalk  that  I  am  virtually  impris- 
oned, except  when  I  can  arrange  my  conditions  in 
the  most  favorable  way,  in  a  way  that  happens  to 
agree  with  me.  .  .  .  Few  people  enjoy  better  health 
than  I  do  just  so  long  as  I  am  let  alone  and  regulate 
my  own  habits;  but  when  others  want  me  to  wear 
their  shoes,  how  they  do  chafe  and  pinch !  I  think, 
if  I  am  unsocial,  it  is  quite  as  much  by  constitution 
as  it  is  by  any  want  of  the  social  instinct,  and  I  have 
learned  to  judge  others  very  charitably  in  the  study 
of  my  own  weakness. 

Our  neighbors  of  Manhattan  have  an  excellent 
jest  about  our  crooked  streets  which,  if  they  were  a 
little  more  familiar  with  a  native  author  of  unques- 
tionable veracity,  they  would  strike  out  from  the 
letter  of  "Our  Boston  Correspondent"  where  there 
is  a  source  of  perennial  hilarity.  It  is  worth  while  to 
reprint,  for  the  benefit  of  whom  it  may  concern,  a 
paragraph  from  the  authentic  history  of  the  vener- 
able Diedrich  Knickerbocker:  — 

"The  sage  council,  as  has  been  mentioned  in  a 
preceding  chapter,  not  being  able  to  determine  upon 
any  plan  for  the  building  of  their  city,  —  the  cows 
in  a  laudable  fit  of  patriotism,  took  it  under  their 
peculiar  charge,  and  as  they  went  to  and  from  pas- 

[87] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

ture,  established  paths  through  the  bushes,  on  each 
side  of  which  the  good  folks  built  their  houses; 
which  is  one  cause  of  the  rambling  and  picturesque 
turns  and  labyrinths,  which  distinguish  certain 
streets  of  New  York  at  this  very  day." 

To  compare  the  situations  of  any  dwellings  in 
either  of  the  great  cities  with  those  which  look  upon 
the  Common,  the  Public  Garden,  the  waters  of  the 
Back  Bay,  would  be  to  take  an  unfair  advantage  of 
Fifth  Avenue  and  Walnut  Street.  St.  Botolph's 
daughter  dresses  in  plainer  clothes  than  her  more 
stately  sisters,  but  she  wears  an  emerald  on  her 
right  hand  and  a  diamond  on  her  left  that  Cybele 
herself  need  not  be  ashamed  of. 

While  the  inhabitants  of  Albany  and  Augusta  are 
listening  for  the  cracking  and  grinding  of  the  break- 
ing ice  in  their  rivers,  the  Bostonians  are  looking  for 
the  crocuses  and  snow-drops  in  the  Beacon  Street 
front-yards.  Boston  is  said  to  be  in  latitude  42°  and 
something  more,  but  Beacon  Street  is  practically 
not  higher  than  40°,  on  account  of  its  fine  southern 
exposure.  Not  long  after  the  pretty  show  of  crocuses 
has  made  the  borders  look  gay  behind  the  iron 
fences,  a  faint  suspicion  arises  in  the  mind  of  the 

[88] 


THE   BOSTON   FIRE 

interested  spectator  that  the  brown  grass  on  the 
banks  of  the  Common  and  the  terraces  of  the  State 
House  is  getting  a  little  greenish.  The  change  shows 
first  in  the  creases  and  on  the  slopes,  and  one  hardly 
knows  whether  it  is  fancy  or  not.  There  is  also  a 
spotty  look  about  some  of  the  naked  trees  that  we 
had  not  noticed  before,  yes,  the  buds  are  swelling. 
The  breaking-up  of  the  ice  on  the  Frog  Pond  ought 
to  have  been  as  carefully  noted  as  that  of  the  Hud- 
son and  Kennebec  but  it  seems  to  have  been  neg- 
lected by  local  observers.  If  anybody  would  take  the 
trouble  to  keep  the  record  of  the  leafing  and  flower- 
ing of  the  trees  on  the  Common,  of  the  first  coming 
of  the  birds,  of  the  day  when  the  first  schooner 
passes  West  Boston  Bridge,  it  would  add  a  great 
deal  to  the  pleasure  of  our  spring  walks  through  the 
malls,  and  out  to  the  learned  city  beyond  the  river, 
because  dull  isolated  facts  become  interesting  by 
comparison.  But  one  must  go  to  the  country  to  find 
people  who  care  enough  about  these  matters,  and 
who  are  constantly  enough  in  the  midst  of  the 
sights  and  sounds  of  the  opening  year  to  take  cogni- 
zance of  the  order  of  that  grand  procession,  with 
March  blowing  his  trumpet  at  the  head  of  it,  and 
April  following  with  her  green  flag,  and  the  rest 

[89] 


DR.  HOLMES'S  BOSTON 

coming  in  their  turn,  till  February  brings  up  the 
rear  with  his  white  banner. 

Around  the  green,  in  morning  light, 

The  spired  and  palaced  summits  blaze, 
And,  sunlike,  from  her  Beacon-height 

The  dome-crowned  city  spreads  her  rays; 
They  span  the  waves,  they  belt  the  plains, 

They  skirt  the  roads  with  bands  of  white, 
Till  with  a  flash  of  gilded  panes 

Yon  farthest  hillside  bounds  the  sight. 
Peace,  Freedom,  Wealth!  no  fairer  view, 

Though  with  the  wild-bird's  restless  wings 
We  sailed  beneath  the  noontide's  blue 

Or  chased  the  moonlight's  endless  rings! 
Here,  fitly  raised  by  grateful  hands 

His  holiest  memory  to  recall, 
The  Hero's,  Patriot's  image  stands; 

He  led  our  sires  who  won  them  all! 


CHAPTER  V 
BOSTON  VERSUS  ENGLAND 

1877 


This  is  your  month,  the  month  of  "perfect  days," 
Birds  in  full  song  and  blossoms  all  ablaze. 
Nature  herself  your  earliest  welcome  breathes, 
Spreads  every  leaflet,  every  bower  inwreathes; 
Carpets  her  paths  for  your  returning  feet, 
Puts  forth  her  best  your  coming  steps  to  greet; 
And  Heaven  must  surely  find  the  earth  in  tune 
When  Home,  Sweet  Home,  exhales  the  breath  of  June. 

Eight  years  an  exile!  What  a  weary  while 
Since  first  our  herald  sought  the  mother  isle ! 
His  snow-white  flag  no  churlish  wrong  has  soiled,  — 
He  left  unchallenged,  he  returns  unspoiled. 

Here  let  us  keep  him,  here  he  saw  the  light,  — 
His  genius,  wisdom,  wit,  are  ours  by  right; 
And  if  we  lose  him  our  lament  will  be 
We  have  "five  hundred"  —  not  "as  good  as  he." 


CHAPTER    V 

BOSTON  VERSUS  ENGLAND 

1877 

["Boston  has  enough  of  England  about  it  to  make 
a  good  English  Dictionary,"  wrote  Dr.  Holmes,  who  in 
recording  his  trans-Atlantic  impressions  delighted  in 
reversing  the  customary  method  of  his  fellow-country- 
men and  invariably  made  his  comparisons  tip  the  scales 
in  favor  of  his  native  haunts.  During  Lowell's  stay  in 
England  the  Doctor,  in  his  letters,  frequently  voiced 
his  preference  for  his  own  land,  and  later  celebrated 
Lowell's  return,  with  a  charming  poetic  tribute. 

He  wrote  to  Lowell  in  1877:] 

I  will  venture  to  say  that  the  Boston  postmark 
looks  pleasantly  on  the  back  of  a  letter  —  for  you 
have  paid  your  debts  before  sailing,  I  do  not  ques- 
tion. 

I  do  not  feel  quite  happy  without  reminding 
you  once  or  twice  in  a  year,  or  even  a  little  oftener 
than  that,  that  there  is  such  a  place  as  New  Eng- 
land, and  that  you  have  some  friends  there  who 
have  not  forgotten  you,  and  who  will  be  very  glad 
to  see  you  back  again. 

[  93  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

What  can  I  say  to  interest  you !  The  migrations 
of  the  Vicar  and  his  wife  from  the  blue  bed  to  the 
brown  were  hardly  more  monotonous  that  the  pen- 
dulum-swing of  my  existence,  so  far  as  all  outward 
occurrences  go.  Yet  life  is  never  monotonous,  abso- 
lutely, to  me.  I  am  a  series  of  surprises  to  myself  in 
the  changes  that  years  and  ripening,  and  it  may  be 
a  still  further  process  which  I  need  not  name,  bring 
about.  The  movement  onward  is  like  changing 
place  in  a  picture  gallery  — the  light  fades  from  this 
picture  and  falls  on  that,  so  that  you  wonder  where 
the  first  has  gone  to  and  see  all  at  once  the  meaning 
of  the  other.  Not  that  I  am  so  different  from  other 
people  —  there  may  be  a  dozen  of  me,  minus  my 
accidents,  for  aught  I  know  —  say  rather  ten  thou- 
sand. But  what  a  strange  thing  life  is  when  you 
have  waded  in  up  to  your  neck  and  remember  the 
shelving  sands  you  have  trodden! 

You  may  get  as  much  European  epidermis  as  you 
like,  the  strigil  will  always  show  you  to  be  at  heart 
an  unchanged  and  unchangeable  New  Englander. 
You  are  anchored  here  and  though  your  cable  is 
three  thousand  miles  long,  it  will  pull  you  home 
again  by  and  by;  at  least  so  I  believe.  That  is  just 

[  94  1 


BOSTON  VERSUS  ENGLAND 

what  we  like,  —  a  man  who  can  be  at  his  ease  in 
Court  or  cloister,  and  yet  has  a  bit  of  Yankee  back- 
bone that  won't  soften  in  spite  of  his  knee-breeches, 
his  having  to  be  "with  high  consideration"  and  the 
rest. 

The  Club  has  flourished  greatly,  and  proved  to^ 
all  of  us  a  source  of  the  greatest  delight.  I  do  not 
believe  that  there  ever  were  such  agreeable  periodi- 
cal meetings  in  Boston  as  these  we  have  had  at 
Parker's.  We  have  missed  you  of  course,  but  your 
memory  and  your  reputation  were  with  us.  The 
magazine  which  you  helped  to  give  a  start  to  has 
prospered,  since  its  transfer  to  Ticknor  &  Fields. 

I  should  like  very  much  to  hear  something  of  your 
every-day  experiences  of  English  life,  —  how  you 
like  the  different  classes  of  English  people  you  meet, 
—  the  scholars,  the  upper  class,  and  the  average 
folk  that  you  may  have  to  deal  with.  You  know 
that,  to  a  Bostonian,  there  is  nothing  like  a  Bos- 
tonian's  impression  of  a  new  people  or  mode  of  life. 
We  carry  the  Common  in  our  heads  as  the  unit  of 
space,  the  State  House  as  her  standard  of  architec- 
ture, and  measure  off  men  in  Edward  Everetts  as 
with  a  yard-stick. 

[95] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

Perhaps  you  would  like  a  word  or  two  about  the 
Club.  No  meeting  the  last  Saturday  of  December, 
that  being  the  25th.  The  last  of  November  we  had 
a  very  good  meeting  for  these  degenerate  days  — 
Emerson  hors  de  combat,  mainly,  Agassiz  dead, 
Longfellow  an  absentee,  Lowell  representing  —  the 
Club  —  at  her  Imperial  Majesty's  Court.  I  feel  like 
old  Nestor  talking  of  his  companions  of  earlier  days 

—  divine  Polyphemus,  godlike  Theseus,  and  the 
rest,  —  "men  like  these  I  have  not  seen  and  shall 
never  look  on  their  like"  —  at  least  until  you  come 
back  and  we  have  Longfellow  and  all  that  is  left  of 
Emerson  to  meet  you.  I  say  "all  that  is  left."  It  is 
the  machinery  of  thought  that  moves  with  diffi- 
culty, especially  the  memory,  but  we  can  hardly 
hope  that  the  other  mental  powers  will  not  fade 
as  that  has  faded. 

Emerson  is  gently  fading  out  like  a  photograph 

—  the  outlines  are  all  there,  but  the  details  are 
.  getting  fainter. 

When  I  think  of  myself  slowly  oxydating  in  my 
quiet  village  life,  and  of  you  in  the  centre  of  every- 
thing, yourself  a  centre,  I  smile  at  the  contrast,  and 
wonder  whether  you  still  remember  there  is  such 
a  corner  of  the  universe  as  that  from  which  I  am 

[96] 


State  Street,  from  an  Engraving  made  about  18^2 


BOSTON   VERSUS   ENGLAND 

writing.  .  .  .  You  must  be  what  our  people  call  "a 
great  success"  in  England;  now  come  home  (when 
you  are  ready)  and  you  shall  be  Sir  Oracle  —  not 
Magnus  but  Maximus  Apollo,  among  your  own 
admiring  fellow-citizens. 

This  is  our  place  of  meeting;  opposite 
That  towered  and  pillared  building :  look  at  it; 
King's  Chapel  in  the  Second  George's  day, 
Rebellion  stole  its  regal  name  away,  — 
Stone  Chapel  sounded  better;  but  at  last 
The  poisoned  name  of  our  provincial  past 
Had  lost  its  ancient  venom;  then  once  more 
Stone  Chapel  was  King's  Chapel  as  before. 

Next  the  old  church  your  wandering  eye  will  meet  — 
A  granite  pile  that  stares  upon  the  street  — 
Our  civic  temple;  slanderous  tongues  have  said 
Its  shape  was  modelled  from  St.  Botolph's  head, 
Lofty,  but  narrow;  jealous  passers-by- 
Say  Boston  always  held  her  head  too  high. 

Turn  half-way  round,  and  let  your  look  survey 
The  white  fagade  that  gleams  across  the  way,  — 
The  many-windowed  building,  tall  and  wide, 
The  palace-inn  that  shows  its  northern  side 
In  grateful  shadow  when  the  sunbeams  beat 
The  granite  wall  in  summer's  scorching  heat. 
This  is  the  place;  whether  its  name  you  spell 
Tavern,  or  caravansera,  or  hotel. 
Would  I  could  steal  its  echoes!  You  should  find 
Such  store  of  vanished  pleasures  brought  to  mind: 

[97  1 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

Such  feasts!  the  laughs  of  many  a  jocund  hour 
That  shook  the  mortar  from  King  George's  tower; 
Such  guests !  What  famous  names  its  record  boasts, 
Whose  owners  wander  in  the  mob  of  ghosts ! 
Such  stories!  every  beam  and  plank  is  filled 
With  juicy  wit  the  joyous  talkers  spilled. 

[Lowell  testified  to  the  brilliancy  of  the  gatherings 
of  the  Saturday  Club,  when  he  wrote  from  the  centre  of 
London's  most  cultured  circles:  —  "I  have  never  seen 
society,  on  the  whole,  so  good  as  I  used  to  meet  at  our 
Saturday  Club." 

In  1886,  Dr.  Holmes  started  with  his  daughter,  Mrs. 
Sargent,  upon  a  trip  to  Europe.  He  had  not  been 
abroad  since  his  student  days,  and  he  remained  four 
months,  spending  most  of  his  time  in  England,  where 
he  was  overwhelmed  with  attentions.  His  impressions 
of  the  old  world  at  this  time  have  been  bequeathed  us 
in  one  of  his  last  volumes,  "Our  Hundred  Days  in  Eu- 
rope." During  this  triumphal  journey  he  amuses  him- 
self, as  was  his  wont,  in  comparing  the  conditions 
abroad  with  those  at  home:] 

When  Dickens  landed  in  Boston,  he  was  struck 
with  the  brightness  of  all  the  objects  he  saw,  — 
buildings,  signs,  and  so  forth.  When  I  landed  in 
Liverpool,  everything  looked  very  dark,  very  dingy, 
very  massive,  in  the  streets  I  drove  through.  So  in 
London.  .  .  . 

We  went  to  the  Lyceum  Theatre  to  see  Mr.  Irving. 
[  98] 


BOSTON  VERSUS  ENGLAND 

.  .  .  Between  the  scenes  we  went  behind  the  curtain, 
and  saw  the  very  curious  and  admirable  machinery 
of  the  dramatic  spectable.  We  made  the  acquaint- 
ance of  several  imps  and  demons,  who  were  got  up 
wonderfully  well.  Ellen  Terry  was  as  fascinating  as 
ever.  I  remember  that  once  before  I  had  met  her  and 
Mr.  Irving  behind  the  scenes.  It  was  at  the  Boston 
Theatre,  and  while  I  was  talking  with  them  a  very 
heavy  piece  of  scenery  came  crashing  down,  and 
filled  the  whole  place  with  dust.  It  was  but  a  short 
distance  from  where  we  were  standing,  and  I  could 
not  help  thinking  how  near  our  several  life-dramas 
came  to  a  simultaneous  exeunt  omnes. 

To  one  whose  eyes  are  used  to  Park  Street  and 
the  Old  South  steeples  as  the  standards  of  height,  a 
spire  which  climbs  four  hundred  feet  towards  the  sky 
is  a  new  sensation.  .  .  . 

Cheyne  (pronounced  "Chainie")  Walk  is  a  some- 
what extended  range  of  buildings.  Cheyne  Row  is  a 
passage  which  reminded  me  a  little  of  my  old  habitat, 
Montgomery  Place,  now  Bosworth  Street. 

There  are  three  grades  of  recognition,  entirely 
distinct  from  each  other  in  the  meeting  of  two  per- 
sons from  different  countries  who  speak  the  same 

[  99  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S  BOSTON 

language,  —  an  American  and  an  Englishman,  for 
instance;  the  meeting  of  two  Americans  from  differ- 
ent cities,  as  of  a  Bostonian  and  a  New  Yorker  or  a 
Chicagoan;  and  the  meeting  of  two  from  the  same 
city,  as  of  two  Bostonians.  .  .  .  Let  me  give  a  few 
practical  examples.  An  American  and  an  English- 
man meet  in  a  foreign  land.  The  Englishman  has 
occasion  to  mention  his  weight,  which  he  finds  has 
gained  in  the  course  of  his  travels.  "How  much  is  it 
now?"  asks  the  American.  "Fourteen  stone.  How 
much  do  you  weigh?"  "Within  four  pounds  of  two 
hundred."  Neither  of  them  takes  at  once  any  clear 
idea  of  what  the  other  weighs.  The  American  has 
never  thought  of  his  own,  or  his  friends',  or  anybody's 
weight  in  stones  of  fourteen  pounds.  The  English- 
man has  never  thought  of  any  one's  weight  in  pounds. 
They  can  calculate  very  well  with  a  slip  of  paper  and 
a  pencil,  but  not  the  less  is  their  language  but  half 
intelligible  as  they  speak  and  listen.  The  same  thing 
is  in  a  measure  true  of  other  matters  they  talk  about. 
"It  is  about  as  large  a  space  as  the  Common,"  says 
the  Boston  man.  "It  is  about  as  large  as  St.  James's 
Park,"  says  the  Londoner.  "As  high  as  the  State 
House,"  says  the  Bostonian,  or  "as  tall  as  Bunker 
Hill  Monument,"  or  "about  as  big  as  the  Frog 

[  100  1 


Park  Street  Church 


BOSTON  VERSUS  ENGLAND 

Pond,"  where  the  Londoner  would  take  St.  Paul's, 
the  Nelson  Column,  the  Serpentine,  as  his  standard 
of  comparison.  The  difference  in  scale  does  not  stop 
here:  it  runs  through  a  greater  part  of  the  objects  of 
thought  and  conversation.  .  ..  Conversation  between 
two  Londoners,  two  New  Yorkers,  two  Bostonians, 
requires  no  footnotes,  which  is  a  great  advantage  in 
their  intercourse.  .  .  .  How  well  they  understand 
each  other!  Thirty-two  degrees  marks  the  freezing- 
point.  Two  hundred  and  twelve  marks  the  boiling 
point.  They  have  the  same  scale,  the  same  fixed 
points,  the  same  record  —  and  no  wonder  they  pre- 
fer each  other's  company ! 

We  Boston  people  are  so  bright  and  wide-awake, 
and  have  been  really  so  much  in  advance  of  our 
fellow-barbarians  with  our  "Monthly  Anthologies," 
and  "Atlantic  Monthlies,"  and  " North  American 
Reviews,"  that  we  have  been  in  danger  of  thinking 
our  local  scale  was  the  absolute  one  of  excellence  — 
forgetting  that  212  Fahrenheit  is  but  100  Centigrade. 
That  is  one  way  of  looking  at  ourselves ;  and  the  other, 
as  you  know,  is  looking  on  ourselves  as  intellectual 
colonial  dependents,  and  accepting  that "  certain  con- 
descension in  foreigners,"  which  you  [Lowell]  have  so 
deliciously  exploded,  as  all  that  we  are  entitled  to." 

[  101  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

The  17th  of  June  is  memorable  in  the  annals  of  my 
country.  On  that  day  in  the  year  1775  the  battle  of 
Bunker's  Hill  was  fought  on  the  height  I  see  from  the 
window  of  my  library,  where  I  am  now  writing.  The 
monument  raised  in  memory  of  our  defeat,  which  was 
in  truth  a  victory,  is  almost  as  much  a  part  of  the 
furniture  of  my  room  as  its  chairs  and  tables;  out- 
side, as  they  are  inside,  furniture.  But  the  17th  of 
June  1886,  is  memorable  to  me  above  all  other  anni- 
versaries of  that  day  I  have  known.  For  on  that  day 
I  received  from  the  ancient  University  of  Cambridge, 
England,  the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Letters,  "  Doctor 
Litt.,"  in  its  abbreviated  academic  form.  The  honor 
was  an  unexpected  one"  that  is,  until  a  short  time 
before  it  was  conferred. 

In  looking  at  the  monuments  which  I  saw  in  Lon- 
don and  elsewhere  in  England,  certain  resemblances, 
comparisons,  parallels,  contrasts,  and  suggestions 
obtruded  themselves  upon  my  consciousness.  We 
have  one  steeple  in  Boston  which  to  my  eyes  seems 
absolutely  perfect:  that  of  the  Central  Church,  at 
the  corner  of  Newbury  and  Berkeley  streets.  Its 
resemblance  to  the  spire  of  Salisbury  had  always 
struck  me.  On  mentioning  this  to  the  late  Mr.  Rich- 

[  102  ] 


BOSTON  VERSUS  ENGLAND 

ardson,  the  very  distinguished  architect,  he  said  to 
me  that  he  thought  it  more  like  that  of  the  Cathedral 
of  Chartres.  One  of  the  best  living  architects  agreed 
with  me  as  to  the  similarity  to  that  of  Salisbury.  It 
does  not  copy  either  exactly,  but,  if  it  had  twice  its 
actual  dimensions,  would  compare  well  with  the  best 
of  the  two,  if  one  is  better  than  the  other.  Saint- 
Martin-in-the-Fields  made  me  feel  as  if  I  were  in 
Boston.  Our  Arlington  Street  Church  copies  it 
pretty  closely,  but  Mr.  Gilman  left  out  the  columns. 

On  other  shores,  above  their  mouldering  towns, 
In  sullen  pomp  the  tall  cathedral  frowns. 

Yet  Faith's  pure  hymn,  beneath  its  shelter  rude, 
Breathes  out  as  sweetly  to  the  tangled  wood 
As  where  the  rays  through  pictured  glories  pour 
On  marble  shaft  and  tessellated  floor;  — 
Heaven  asks  no  surplice  round  the  heart  that  feels, 
And  all  is  holy  where  devotion  kneels. 

As  for  the  kind  of  monument  such  as  I  see  from  my 
library  window  standing  on  the  summit  of  Bunker 
Hill,  and  have  recently  seen  for  the  first  time  at 
Washington,  on  a  larger  scale,  I  own  that  I  think  a 
built-up  obelisk  a  poor  affair  as  compared  with  an 
Egyptian  monolith  of  the  same  form.  It  was  a  tri- 
umph of  skill  to  quarry,  to  shape,  to  transport,  to 

[  103  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

cover  with  expressive  symbols,  to  erect,  such  a  stone 
as  that  which  has  been  transferred  to  the  Thames 
Embankment,  or  that  which  now  stands  in  Central 
Park,  New  York.  Each  of  its  four  sides  is  a  page  of 
history,  written  so  as  to  endure  through  a  score  of 
centuries.  A  built-up  obelisk  requires  very  little 
more  than  brute  labor.  A  child  can  shape  its  model 
from  a  carrot  or  a  parsnip,  and  set  it  up  in  miniature 
with  blocks  of  loaf  sugar.  It  teaches  nothing,  and  the 
stranger  must  go  to  his  guide-book  to  know  what  it  is 
there  for.  I  was  led  into  many  reflections  by  a  sight 
of  the  Washington  Monument.  I  found  it  was  almost 
the  same  thing  at  a  mile's  distance  as  the  Bunker 
Hill  Monument  at  half  a  mile's  distance;  and  unless 
the  eye  had  some  means  of  measuring  the  space  be- 
tween itself  and  the  stone  shaft,  one  was  about  as 
good  as  the  other. 

What  better  provision  can  be  made  for  mortal 
man  than  such  as  our  own  Boston  can  afford  its 
wealthy  children?  A  palace  on  Commonwealth 
Avenue  or  on  Beacon  Street;  a  country-place  at 
Framingham  or  Lenox;  a  seaside  residence  at  Na- 
hant,  Beverly  Farms,  Newport,  or  Bar  Harbor;  a 
pew  at  Trinity  or  King's  Chapel;  a  tomb  at  Mount 
Auburn,  or  Forest  Hills;  with  the  prospect  of  a 

[  104  1 


Boston  from  the  Public  Garden,  about  1880 


BOSTON  VERSUS  ENGLAND 

memorial  stained-window  after  his  lamented  demise, 
— is  not  that  a  pretty  programme  to  offer  a  can- 
didate for  human  existence? 

I,  for  one,  being  myself  as  inveterately  rooted  an 
American  of  the  Boston  variety  as  ever  saw  himself 
mirrored  in  the  Frog  Pond,  hope  that  the  exchanges 
of  emigrants  and  re-emigrants  will  be  much  more 
evenly  balanced  by  and  by  than  at  present.  I  hope 
that  more  Englishmen  like  James  Smithson  will  help 
to  build  up  our  scientific  and  literary  institutions.  I 
hope  that  more  Americans  like  George  Peabody  will 
call  down  the  blessings  of  the  English  people  by  noble 
benefactions  to  the  cause  of  charity.  It  was  with 
deep  feelings  of  pride  and  gratitude  that  I  looked  up- 
on the  bust  of  Longfellow,  holding  its  place  among 
the  monuments  of  England's  greatest  and  best  chil- 
dren. I  see  with  equal  pleasure  and  pride  that  one  of 
our  own  large-hearted  countrymen  has  honored  the 
memory  of  three  English  poets,  Milton,  Herbert,  and 
Cowper,  by  the  gift  of  two  beautiful  stained-win- 
dows, and  with  still  ampler  munificence  is  erecting 
a  stately  fountain  in  the  birthplace  of  Shakespeare. 
Such  acts  as  these  make  us  feel  more  and  more  the 
truth  of  the  generous  sentiment  which  closes  the 

[  105  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 
ode  of  Washington  Allston,  "America  to  Great  Bri- 
tain": "We  are  one!" 

Let  not  the  too  mature  traveller  think  it  [travel- 
ling] will  change  any  of  his  habits.  It  will  interrupt 
his  routine  for  a  while,  and  then  he  will  settle  down 
into  his  former  self,  and  be  just  what  he  was  before. 
I  brought  home  a  pair  of  shoes  I  had  made  in  London; 
they  do  not  fit  like  those  I  had  before  I  left,  and  I 
rarely  wear  them.  It  is  just  so  with  the  new  habits 
I  formed  and  the  old  ones  I  left  behind  me. 

After  memorable  interviews,  and  kindest  hospi- 
talities, and  grand  sights,  and  huge  influx  of  patri- 
otic pride,  —  for  every  American  owns  all  America,  — 
I  come  back  with  the  feeling  which  a  boned  turkey 
might  experience,  if,  retaining  his  consciousness,  he 
were  allowed  to  resume  his  skeleton. 

Welcome,  O  Fighting  Gladiator,  and  Recumbent 
Cleopatra,  and  Dying  Warrior  (reproduced  in  the 
calcined  mineral  of  Lutetia)  that  crown  my  loaded 
shelves !  Welcome,  ye  triumphs  of  pictorial  art  (re- 
peated by  the  magic  graver)  that  look  down  from  the 
walls  of  my  sacred  cell !  .  .  .  The  old  books  look  out 
from  the  shelves,  and  I  seem  to  read  on  their  backs 

[  106] 


BOSTON  VERSUS  ENGLAND 

something  besides  their  titles,  —  a  kind  of  solemn 
greeting.  The  crimson  carpet  flushes  warm  under 
my  feet.  The  arm-chair  hugs  me;  the  swivel-chair 
spins  round  with  me,  as  if  it  were  giddy  with  pleas- 
ure; the  vast  recumbent  fauteuil  stretches  itself  out 
under  my  weight,  as  one  joyous  with  food  and  wine 
stretches  in  after-dinner  laughter. 

New  England,  we  love  thee;  no  time  can  erase 
From  the  hearts  of  thy  children  the  smile  on  thy  face. 
'T  is  the  mothers  fond  look  of  affection  and  pride, 
As  she  gives  her  fair  son  to  the  arms  of  his  bride. 

Here  's  to  all  the  good  people,  wherever  they  be, 
Who  have  grown  in  the  shade  of  the  liberty -tree; 
We  all  love  its  leaves,  and  its  blossoms  and  fruit, 
But  pray  have  a  care  of  the  fence  round  its  root. 

We  should  like  to  talk  big;  it 's  a  kind  of  a  right, 
When  the  tongue  has  got  loose  and  the  waistband 

grown  tight; 
But,  as  pretty  Miss  Prudence  remarked  to  her  beau, 
On  its  own  heap  of  compost,  no  biddy  should  crow. 

Enough!  There  are  gentlemen  waiting  to  talk, 
Whose  words  are  to  mine  as  the  flower  to  the  stalk. 
Stand  by  your  old  mother  whatever  befall; 
God  bless  all  her  children!  Good  night  to  you  all! 


CHAPTER  VI 
"THE  HUB" 


The  Angel  spake:  "This  threefold  hill  shall  be 
The  home  of  Arts,  the  nurse  of  Liberty! 
Our  stately  summit  from  its  shaft  shall  pour 
Its  deep-red  blaze  along  the  darkened  shore; 
Emblem  of  thoughts  that,  kindling  far  and  wide, 
In  danger's  night  shall  be  a  nation's  guide. 
One  swelling  crest  the  citadel  shall  crown, 
Its  slanted  bastions  black  with  battle's  frown, 
And  bid  the  sons  that  tread  its  scowling  heights 
Bare  their  strong  arms  for  man  and  all  his  rights! 
One  silent  steep  along  the  northern  wave 
Shall  hold  the  patriarch's  and  the  hero's  grave; 
When  fades  the  torch,  when  o'er  the  peaceful  scene 
The  embattled  fortress  smiles  in  living  green, 
The  cross  of  Faith,  the  anchor  staff  of  Hope, 
Shall  stand  eternal  on  its  grassy  slope; 
There  through  all  time  shall  faithful  memory  tell 
'Here  virtue  toiled,  and  Patriot  valor  fell; 
Thy  free,  proud  fathers  slumber  at  thy  side; 
Live  as  they  lived,  or  perish  as  they  died.'" 


CHAPTER    VI 

"THE  HUB" 

I  love  this  old  place  where  I  was  born ;  the  heart 
of  the  world  beats  under  the  three  hills  of  Boston, 
Sir !  I  love  this  great  land  with  so  many  tall  men  in 
it,  and  so  many  good,  noble  women. 

A  man  can  see  further,  Sir,  —  he  said  one  day,  — 
from  the  top  of  Boston  State  House,  and  see  more 
that  is  worth  seeing,  than  from  all  the  pyramids  and 
turrets  and  steeples  in  all  the  places  in  the  world! 
No  smoke,  Sir;  no  fog,  Sir;  and  a  clean  sweep  from 
the  Outer  Light  and  the  sea  beyond  it  to  the  New 
Hampshire  mountains !  Yes,  Sir,  —  and  there  are 
great  truths  that  are  higher  than  mountains  and 
broader  than  seas,  that  people  are  looking  for  from 
the  tops  of  these  hills  of  ours,  —  such  as  the  world 
never  saw,  though  it  might  have  seen  them  at 
Jerusalem,  if  its  eyes  had  been  open! 

It's  a  slow  business,  this  of  getting  the  ark 
launched.  The  Jordan  was  n't  deep  enough,  and 
the  Tiber  was  n't  deep  enough,  and  the  Rhone  was 
n't  deep  enough,  —  and  perhaps  the  Charles  is  n't 

[  HI  1 


DR.  HOLMES'S  BOSTON 
deep  enough;  but  I  don't  feel  sure  of  that,  Sir,  and  I 
love  to  hear  the  workmen  knocking  at  the  old  blocks 
of  tradition  and  making  the  ways  smooth  with  the 
oil  of  the  Good  Samaritan.  I  don't  know,  Sir,  — 
but  I  do  think  she  stirs  a  little,  I  do  believe  she 
slides;  and  when  I  think  of  what  a  work  that  is  for 
the  dear  old  three-breasted  mother  of  American 
liberty,  I  would  not  take  all  the  glory  of  all  the 
greatest  cities  in  the  world  for  my  birthright  in  the 
soil  of  little  Boston! 

A  new  race,  and  a  whole  new  world  for  the  new- 
born human  soul  to  work  in!  And  Boston  is  the 
brain  of  it,  and  has  been  any  time  these  three 
hundred  years!  That's  all  I  claim  for  Boston, — 
that  it  is  the  thinking  centre  of  the  continent,  and 
therefore  of  the  planet.  .  .  .  Don't  talk  to  me  of 
modesty,  I  'm  past  that !  There  is  n't  a  thing  that 
was  ever  said  or  done  in  Boston,  from  pitching  tea 
overboard  to  the  last  ecclesiastical  lie  it  tore  to 
tatters  and  flung  into  the  dock,  that  was  n't  thought 
very  indelicate  by  some  fool  or  tyrant  or  bigot,  and 
all  the  entrails  of  commercial  and  spiritual  conserv- 
atism are  twisted  into  colics  as  often  as  this  revo- 
lutionary brain  of  ours  has  a  fit  of  thinking  come 
■N  over  it. 

[  112  1 


"THE   HUB" 

When  I  heard  the  young  fellow's  exclamation,  I 
looked  round  the  table  with  curiosity  .  .  .  what  I 
heard  began  so :  — 

— By  the  Frog  Pond,  when  there  were  frogs  in  it, 
and  the  folks  used  to  come  down  from  the  tents  on 
'Lection  and  Independence  days  with  their  pails  to 
get  water  to  make  egg-pop  with.  Born  in  Boston; 
went  to  school  in  Boston  as  long  as  the  boys  would 
let  me.  —  The  little  man  groaned,  turned,  as  if  to 
look  round,  and  went  on.  —  Ran  away  from  school 
one  day  to  see  Phillips  hung  for  killing  Denegri  with 
a  loggerhead.  That  was  in  flip  days,  when  there 
were  always  two  or  three  loggerheads  in  the  fire. 
I  'm  a  Boston  boy,  I  tell  you,  —  born  at  the  North 
End,  and  mean  to  be  buried  on  Copp's  Hill,  with 
the  good  underground  people,  —  the  Worthylakes, 
and  the  rest  of  'em.  Yes,  Sir,  —  up  on  the  old 
hill,  where  they  buried  Captain  Daniel  Malcolm 
in  a  stone  grave,  ten  feet  deep,  to  keep  him  safe 
from  the  red-coats,  in  these  old  times  when  the 
world  was  frozen  up  tight  and  there  was  n't  but  one 
spot  open,  and  that  was  right  over  Faneuil  Hall,  — 
and  black  enough  it  looked,  I  tell  you!  There's 
where  my  bones  shall  lie,  Sir,  and  rattle  away  when 
the  big  guns  go  off  at  the  Navy  Yard  opposite!  Full 

[  113  1 


DR.  HOLMES'S  BOSTON 
of  crooked  little  streets;  — but  I  tell  you  Boston 
has  opened,  and  kept  open,  more  turnpikes  that 
lead  straight  to  free  thought  and  free  speech  and 
free  deeds  than  any  other  city  of  live  men  or  dead 
men,  —  I  don't  care  how  broad  their  streets  are, 
nor  how  high  their  steeples ! 

—  How  high  is  Bosting  meet'n'  house? —  said  a 
person  with  black  whiskers  and  imperial.  . .  . 

—  How  high?  said  the  little  man.  — As  high  as 
the  first  step  of  the  stairs  that  lead  to  the  New 
Jerusalem.  Is  n't  that  high  enough? 

—  It  is,  —  I  said.  The  great  end  of  being  is  to 
harmonize  man  with  the  order  of  things,  and  the 
church  has  been  a  good  pitch-pipe,  and  may  be  so 
still.  But  who  shall  tune  the  pitch-pipe? 

—  Were  you  born  in  Boston,  Sir?  —  said  the  little 
man,  —  looking  eager  and  excited. 

I  was  not,  —  I  replied. 

—  It 's  a  pity,  —  it 's  a  pity,  —  said  the  little  man ; 
—  it 's  the  place  to  be  born  in.  But  if  you  can't  fix 
it  so  as  to  be  born  here,  you  can  come  and  live  here. 
Old  Ben  Franklin,  the  father  of  American  science 
and  the  American  Union,  wasn't  ashamed  to  be 

[  114  ] 


The  Frog  Pond 


"THE   HUB" 

born  here.  Jim  Otis,  the  father  of  American  Inde- 
pendence, bothered  about  the  Cape  Cod  marshes 
awhile,  but  he  came  to  Boston  as  soon  as  he  got  big 
enough.  Joe  Warren  the  first  bloody  ruffled-shirt  of 
the  Revolution,  was  as  good  as  born  here.  Parson 
Channing  strolled  along  this  way  from  Newport, 
and  stayed  here.  Pity  old  Sam  Hopkins  hadn't 
come  too;  we'd  have  made  a  man  of  him, — poor, 
dear,  good  old  Christian  heathen!  There  he  lies, 
as  peaceful  as  a  young  baby  in  the  old  burying- 
ground !  I  've  stood  on  the  slab  many  a  time  .  .  . 
this  is  the  great  Macadamizing  place,  —  always 
cracking  up  something. 

—  Cracking  up  Boston  folks,  —  said  the  gentle- 
man with  the  diamond-pin. 

I  never  thought  he  would  come  to  good  when  I 
heard  him  attempting  to  sneer  at  an  unoffending 
city  so  respectable  as  Boston.  After  a  man  begins 
to  attack  the  State  House,  when  he  gets  bitter 
about  the  Frog  Pond,  you  may  be  sure  there  is  not 
much  left  of  him.  Poor  Edgar  Poe  died  in  the 
hospital  soon  after  he  got  into  this  way  of  talking; 
and  so  sure  as  you  find  an  unfortunate  fellow  re- 
duced to  this  pass,  you  had  better  begin  praying  for 

[  H5  ] 


DR.   HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

him,  and  stop  lending  him  money,  for  he  is  on  his 
last  legs.  Remember  poor  Edgar!  He  is  dead  and 
gone;  but  the  State  House  has  its  cupola  fresh- 
gilded,  and  the  Frog  Pond  has  got  a  fountain  that 
squirts  up  a  hundred  feet  into  the  air  and  glorifies 
that  humble  sheet  with  a  fine  display  of  provincial 
rainbows. 

I  question  everything;  but  if  I  find  Bunker  Hill 
Monument  standing  as  straight  as  when  I  leaned 
against  it  a  year  or  ten  years  ago,  I  am  not  much 
afraid  that  Bunker  Hill  will  cave  in  if  I  trust  myself 
again  on  the  soil  of  it.  .  .  . 

The  Monument  is  an  awful  place  to  visit,  I  said. 
The  waves  of  time  are  like  the  waves  of  the  ocean; 
the  only  thing  they  beat  against  without  destroy- 
ing it  is  a  rock;  and  they  destroy  that  at  last.  But 
it  takes  a  good  while.  There  is  a  stone  now  stand- 
ing in  very  good  order  that  was  as  old  as  a  monu- 
ment of  Louis  XIV  and  Queen  Anne's  day  is  now 
when  Joseph  went  down  into  Egypt.  Think  of  the 
shaft  on  Bunker  Hill  standing  in  the  sunshine  on 
the  morning  of  January  1st  in  the  year  5872 ! 

— It  won't  be  standing,  — the  Master  said.  — We 
are  poor  bunglers  compared  to  those  old  Egyptians. 
There  are  no  joints  in  one  of  their  obelisks.  .  .  . 

[  H6] 


"THE  HUB" 
I  was  thinking  of  something  very  different.  I 
was  indulging  a  fancy  of  mine  about  the  Man  who 
is  to  sit  at  the  foot  of  the  Monument  for  one,  or 
may  be  two  or  three  thousand  years.  As  long  as 
the  monument  stands  there  and  there  is  a  city  near 
it,  there  will  always  be  a  man  to  take  the  names  of 
visitors  and  extract  a  small  tribute  from  their 
pockets,  I  suppose.  I  sometimes  get  to  thinking  of 
the  long,  unbroken  succession  of  these  men,  until 
they  come  to  look  like  one  Man;  continuous  in  be- 
ing unchanging  as  the  stone  he  watches,  looking 
upon  the  successive  generations  of  human  beings 
as  they  come  and  go,  and  out-living  all  the  dynas- 
ties of  the  world  in  all  probability.  It  has  come  to 
pass  that  I  never  speak  to  the  Man  of  the  Monu- 
ment without  wanting  to  take  off  my  hat  and  feel- 
ing as  if  I  were  looking  down  the  vista  of  twenty 
or  thirty  centuries. 

—  Sin  has  many  tools  but  a  lie  is  the  handle 
which  fits  them  all. 

—  I  think,  Sir,  —  said  the  divinity  student,  you 
must  intend  that  for  one  of  the  sayings  of  the  Seven 
Wise  Men  of  Boston  you  were  speaking  of  the  other 
day. 

[  117  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

—I  thank  you  my  young  friend,  —was  my  reply, 
—  but  I  must  say  something  better  than  that,  be- 
fore I  could  pretend  to  fill  out  the  number. 

The  schoolmistress  wanted  to  know  how  many 
of  these  sayings  were  on  record,  and  what,  and  by 
whom  said. 

— Why,  let  us  see,  —  there  is  that  one  of  Benja- 
min Franklin,  ''the  great  Bostonian,"  ...  To  be 
sure,  he  said  a  great  many  wise  things,  —  and  I 
don't  feel  sure  he  did  n't  borrow  this,  —  he  speaks 
as  if  it  were  old.  But  then  he  applied  it  so  neatly !  — 

"He  that  has  once  done  you  a  kindness  will  be 
more  ready  to  do  you  another  than  he  whom  you 
yourself  have  obliged." 

— Then  there  is  that  glorious  Epicurian  paradox, 
uttered  by  my  friend,  the  Historian,  in  one  of  his 
flashing  moments :  — 

"Give  us  the  luxuries  of  life,  and  we  will  dis- 
pense with  its  necessities." 

—  To  these  must  certainly  be  added  that  other 
saying  of  one  of  the  wittiest  of  men:  — 

"Good  Americans,  when  they  die,  go  to  Paris." 

The  divinity  student  looked  grave  at  this,  but 
said  nothing. 

The  schoolmistress  spoke  out,  and  said  she  didn't 
[  H8] 


"THE   HUB" 

think  the  wit  meant  any  irreverence.  It  was  only 
another  way  of  saying,  Paris  is  a  heavenly  place 
after  New  York,  or  Boston. 

A  jaunty-looking  person,  who  had  come  in  with 
the  young  fellow  they  call  John,  —  evidently  a 
stranger,  —  said  there  was  one  more  wise  man's 
saying  that  he  had  heard;  it  was  about  our  place, 
but  he  did  n't  know  who  said  it.  A  civil  curiosity 
was  manifested  by  the  company  to  hear  the  fourth 
wise  saying.  I  heard  him  distinctly  whispering  to 
the  young  fellow  who  brought  him  to  dinner,  Shall 
I  tell  it  ?  To  which  the  answer  was,  Go  ahead !  — 
Well,  —  he  said,  —  this  was  what  I  heard :  — 

"Boston  State  House  is  the  hub  of  the  solar 
system.  You  could  n't  pry  that  out  of  a  Boston 
man  if  you  had  the  tire  of  all  creation  straightened 
out  for  a  crowbar." 

— Sir,  I  said, — I  am  gratified  with  your  remark. 
It  expresses  with  pleasing  vivacity  that  which  I 
have  sometimes  heard  uttered  with  malignant  dul- 
ness.  The  satire  of  the  remark  is  essentially  true 
of  Boston,  —  and  of  all  other  considerable,  —  and 
inconsiderable  places  with  which  I  have  had  the 
privilege  of  being  acquainted.  Cockneys  think 
London  is  the  only  place  in  the  world.  Frenchmen 

[  119] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

—  you  remember  the  line  about  Paris,  the  Court, 
the  World,  etc.  .  .  .  "See  Naples  and  die."  It  is 
quite  as  bad  with  smaller  places.  I  have  been 
about  lecturing,  you  know,  and  have  found  the 
following  propositions  to  hold  true  of  all  of  them : — 

1.  The  axis  of  the  earth  sticks  out  visibly  through 
the  centre  of  each  and  every  town  and  city. 

2.  If  more  than  fifty  years  have  passed  since  its 
foundation,  it  is  affectionately  styled  by  the  in- 
habitants the  "good  old  town  of"  —  (whatever  its 
name  may  happen  to  be). 

3.  Every  collection  of  its  inhabitants  that 
comes  together  to  listen  to  a  stranger  is  invariably 
declared  to  be  a  "remarkably  intelligent  audience." 

4.  The  climate  of  the  place  is  particularly  favor- 
able to  longevity. 

5.  It  contains  several  persons  of  vast  talent  little 
known  to  the  world.  (One  or  two  of  them,  you  may 
remember,  sent  short  pieces  to  the  "Pactolian" 
some  time  since,  which  were  "respectfully  de- 
clined.") 

Boston  is  just  like  other  places  of  its  size;  only 
perhaps,  considering  its  excellent  fish-market,  paid 
fire-department,  superior  monthly  publications, 
and  correct  habit  of  spelling  the  English  language, 

[  120  ] 


The  Old  City  Hall,  1858 


"THE   HUB" 

it  has  some  right  to  look  down  on  the  mob  of  cities. 
I  '11  tell  you,  though,  if  you  want  to  know  it,  what 
is  the  real  offense  of  Boston.  It  drains  a  large  water- 
shed of  its  intellect,  and  will  not  itself  be  drained. 
If  it  would  only  send  away  its  first-rate  men,  in- 
stead of  its  second-rate  ones  (no  offense  to  the  well- 
known  exceptions,  of  which  we  are  always  proud) , 
we  should  be  spared  such  epigrammatic  remarks  as 
that  which  the  gentleman  has  quoted.  There  can 
never  be  a  real  metropolis  in  this  country  until  the 
biggest  centre  can  drain  the  lesser  ones  of  their 
talent  and  wealth. 

You  have  seen  our  gilt  dome,  and  no  doubt  you  've  been  told 
That  the  orbs  of  the  universe  round  it  are  rolled; 
But  I  '11  own  it  to  you,  and  I  ought  to  know  best, 
That  this  is  n't  quite  true  of  all  stars  of  the  West. 

You'll  go  to  Mount  Auburn  —  we'll  show  you  the  track,  — 
And  can  stay  there,  —  unless  you  prefer  to  come  back; 
And  Bunker's  tall  shaft  you  can  climb  if  you  will, 
But  you  '11  puff  like  a  paragraph  praising  a  pill. 

You  must  see  —  but  you  have  seen  —  our  old  Faneuil  Hall, 
Our  churches,  our  school-rooms,  our  sample-rooms,  all; 
And,  perhaps,  though  the  idiots  must  have  their  jokes, 
You  have  found  our  good  people  much  like  other  folks. 

A  bit  of  gilding  here  and  there  has  a  wonderful 
effect  in  enlivening  a  landscape  or  an  apartment. 

[  121  1 


DR.   HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

Napoleon  consoled  the  Parisians  in  their  year  of  de- 
feat by  gilding  the  dome  of  the  Invalides.  Boston 
glorified  her  State  House  and  herself  at  the  expense 
of  a  few  sheets  of  gold  leaf  laid  on  the  dome,  which 
shines  like  a  sun  in  the  eyes  of  her  citizens,  and  like  a 
star  in  those  of  the  approaching  traveller. 

—  There  are  no  such  women  as  the  Boston  wo- 
men, Sir,  — he  said.  ...  —  But  confound  the  make- 
believe  women  we  have  turned  loose  in  our  streets ! 
Where  do  they  come  from?  Not  out  of  Boston  parlors, 
I  trust.  Why,  there  is  n't  a  beast  or  a  bird  that  would 
drag  its  tail  through  the  dirt  in  the  way  these  crea- 
tures do  their  dresses.  Because  a  queen  or  a  duchess 
wears  long  robes  on  great  occasions,  a  maid-of -all- 
work  or  a  factory-girl  thinks  she  must  make  herself  a 
nuisance  by  trailing  through  the  street,  picking  up 
and  carrying  about  with  her  —  pah !  —  that 's  what 
I  call  getting  vulgarity  into  your  bones  and  marrow. 
Making  believe  be  what  you  are  not  is  the  essence 
of  vulgarity.  Show  over  dirt  is  the  one  attribute  of 
vulgar  people.  If  any  man  can  walk  behind  one  of 
these  women  and  see  what  she  rakes  up  as  she  goes, 
and  not  feel  squeamish,  he  has  got  a  tough  stomach. 
I  would  n't  let  one  of  'em  into  my  room  without 

[  122  ] 


"THE   HUB" 

serving  'em  as  David  served  Saul  at  the  cave  of  the 
wilderness,  cut  off  his  skirts,  Sir!  cut  off  his  skirts. 
.  .  .  Don't  tell  me  that  a  true  lady  ever  sacrifices  the 
duty  of  keeping  all  about  her  sweet  and  clean  to  the 
wish  of  making  a  vulgar  show.  I  won't  believe  it  of 
a  lady.  There  are  some  things  that  no  fashion  has 
any  right  to  touch,  and  cleanliness  is  one  of  those 
things.  If  a  woman  wishes  to  show  that  her  husband 
or  father  has  got  money,  which  she  wants  to  spend, 
but  does  n't  know  how,  let  her  buy  a  yard  or  two  of 
silk  and  pin  it  to  her  dress  when  she  goes  out  to  walk, 
but  let  her  unpin  it  before  she  goes  into  the  house. 

[We]  have  had  our  sensibilities  greatly  worked 
upon,  our  patriotism  chilled,  our  local  pride  outraged, 
by  the  monstrosities  which  have  been  allowed  to  de- 
form our  beautiful  public  grounds.  We  have  to  be 
very  careful  in  conducting  a  visitor,  say  from  his 
marble-fronted  hotel  to  the  City  Hall.  Keep  straight 
along  after  entering  the  Garden,  —  you  will  not  care 
to  inspect  the  little  figure  of  the  military  gentleman 
to  your  right.  Yes,the  Cochituate  water  is  drinkable, 
but  I  think  I  would  not  turn  aside  to  visit  that  small 
fabric  which  makes  believe  it  is  a  temple  and  is  a 
weak-eyed  fountain  feebly  weeping  over  its  insignifi- 

[  123  1 


DR.  HOLMES'S  BOSTON 

cance.  About  that  other  stone  misfortune,  cruelly 
reminding  us  of  the  "Boston  Massacre,"  we  will  not 
discourse;  it  is  not  imposing,  and  is  rarely  spoken  of. 

What  a  mortification  to  the  inhabitants  of  a  city 
with  some  hereditary  and  contemporary  claims  to 
cultivation;  which  has  noble  edifices,  grand  libraries, 
educational  institutions  of  the  highest  grade,  an  art- 
gallery  filled  with  the  finest  models  and  rich  in  paint- 
ing and  statuary,  —  a  stately  city  that  stretches 
both  arms  across  the  Charles  to  clasp  the  hands  of 
Harvard,  her  twin-sister,  each  lending  lustre  to  the 
other  like  double  stars,  —  what  a  pity  that  she  should 
be  so  disfigured  by  crude  attempts  to  adorn  her  and 
commemorate  her  past  that  her  most  loving  children 
blush  for  her  artificial  deformities  amidst  the  wealth 
of  her  natural  beauties!  One  hardly  knows  which 
to  groan  over  most  sadly,  —  the  tearing  down  of  old 
monuments,  the  shelling  of  the  Parthenon,  the  over- 
throw of  the  pillared  temples  of  Rome,  and  in  a 
humbler  way  the  destruction  of  the  old  Hancock 
House,  or  the  erection  of  monuments  which  are  to  be 
a  perpetual  eyesore  to  ourselves  and  our  descendants. 

Ever  since  I  paid  ten  cents  for  a  peep  through  the 
telescope  on  the  Common,  and  saw  the  transit  of 
Venus,  my  whole  idea  of  the  creation  has  been  singu- 

[  124  ] 


The  Hancock  House,  on  Beacon  Street  next  to  the  State  House 


^aMgffiflK^i.mttwwW*  * 


"THE  HUB" 
larly  changed.  The  planet  I  beheld  was  not  much  less 
in  size  than  the  one  on  which  we  live.  If  I  had  been 
looking  on  (this)  planet  (from)  outside  its  orbit,  in- 
stead of  looking  on  Venus,  I  should  have  seen  nearly 
the  same  sight  as  that  for  which  I  was  paying  my 
dime.  Is  this  little  globule,  no  bigger  than  a  marble, 
the  Earth  on  which  I  live,  with  all  its  oceans  and 
continents,  with  all  its  tornadoes  and  volcanoes,  its 
mighty  cities,  its  myriads  of  inhabitants?  I  have 
never  got  over  the  shock,  as  it  were,  of  my  discovery. 
There  are  some  things  we  believe  but  do  not  know, 
there  are  others  that  we  know,  but,  in  our  habitual 
state  of  mind,  hardly  believe.  I  know  something  of 
the  relative  size  of  the  planets.  I  have  seen  Venus. 
The  Earth  on  which  I  live  has  never  been  the  same 
to  me  since  that  time. 

All  my  human  sentiments,  all  my  religious  beliefs, 
all  my  conception  of  my  relation  in  space  for  frac- 
tional rights  in  the  universe,  seemed  to  have  under- 
gone a  change.  From  this  vast  and  vague  confusion 
of  all  my  standards  I  gradually  returned  to  the  more 
immediate  phenomena  about  me.  This  little  globule 
evolved  itself  about  me  in  its  vast  complexity  and 
gradually  regained  its  importance.  In  looking  at  our 
planet  equipped  and  provisioned  for  a  long  voyage  in 

[  125  1 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

space,  —  its  almost  boundless  stores  of  coal  and 
other  inflammable  materials,  its  untired  renewal  of 
the  forms  of  life,  the  ever  growing  control  over  the 
powers  of  Nature  which  its  inhabitants  are  acquiring, 
—  all  these  things  point  to  its  fitness  for  a  duration 
transcending  all  our  ordinary  measures  of  time. 
These  conditions  render  possible  the  only  theory 
which  can  "justify  the  ways  of  God  to  man,"  namely, 
that  this  colony  of  the  universe  is  an  educational  in- 
stitution so  far  as  the  human  race  is  concerned.  On 
this  theory  I  base  my  hope  for  myself  and  my  fellow- 
creatures.  If,  in  the  face  of  all  the  so-called  evil  to 
which  I  cannot  close  my  eyes,  I  have  managed  to  re- 
tain a  cheerful  optimism,  it  is  because  this  educa- 
tional theory  is  the  basis  of  my  working  creed. 

Alone!  no  climber  of  an  Alpine  cliff, 
No  Arctic  venturer  on  the  waveless  sea, 
Feels  the  dread  stillness  round  him  as  it  chills 
The  heart  of  him  who  leaves  the  slumbering  earth 
To  watch  the  silent  worlds  that  crowd  the  sky. 

So  have  I  grown  companion  to  myself, 

And  to  the  wandering  spirits  of  the  air 

That  smile  and  whisper  round  us  in  our  dreams. 

Thus  have  I  learned  to  search  if  I  may  know 

The  whence  and  why  of  all  beneath  the  stars 

And  all  beyond  them,  and  to  weigh  my  life 

[  126  ] 


''THE   HUB" 

As  in  a  balance,  —  poising  good  and  ill 

Against  each  other,  —  asking  of  the  Power 

That  flung  me  forth  among  the  whirling  worlds, 

If  I  am  heir  to  any  inborn  right, 

Or  only  as  an  atom  of  the  dust 

That  every  wind  may  blow  where  'er  it  will. 


It  is  here,  Sir !  right  here !  ...  in  this  old  new  city 
of  Boston,  —  this  remote  provincial  corner  of  a  pro- 
vincial nation,  that  the  Battle  of  the  Standard  is 
fighting,  and  was  fighting  before  we  were  born,  and 
will  be  fighting  when  we  are  dead  and  gone,  — 
please  God !  The  battle  goes  on  everywhere  through- 
out civilization;  but  here,  here,  here  is  the  broad 
white  flag  flying  which  proclaims,  first  of  all,  peace 
and  good  will  to  men,  and  next  to  that,  the  absolute, 
unconditional  spiritual  liberty  of  each  individual 
immortal  soul!  The  three-hilled  city  against  the 
seven-hilled  city! ...  I  swear  to  you,  Sir,  I  believe 
that  these  two  centres  of  civilization  are  just  exactly 
the  two  points  that  close  the  circuit  in  the  battery  of 
our  planetary  intelligence!  ,  ,  s  we  have  got  the  new 
heavens  and  the  new  earth  over  us  and  under  us! 
Was  there  ever  anything  in  Italy,  I  should  like  to 
know,  like  a  Boston  sunset? 

Yes,  —  Boston  sunsets;  perhaps  they  're  as  good  in 
[  127  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S  BOSTON 
some  other  places  but  I  know  'em  best  here.  Any- 
how, the  American  skies  are  different  from  anything 
they  see  in  the  Old  World.  Yes,  and  the  rocks  are 
different,  and  everything  that  comes  out  of  the  soil, 
from  grass  to  Indians,  is  different. 

I  look  at  your  faces,  —  I'm  sure  there  are  some  from 
The  three-breasted  mother  I  count  as  my  own; 
You  think  you  remember  the  place  you  have  come  from, 
But  how  it  has  changed  in  the  years  that  have  flown! 

Unaltered,  't  is  true,  is  the  hall  we  call  "Funnel," 

Still  fights  the  "Old  South"  in  the  battle  for  life, 

But  we've  opened  our  door  to  the  West  through  the  tunnel, 

And  we've  cut  off  Fort  Hill  with  our  Amazon  Knife. 

You  should  see  the  new  Westminster  Boston  has  builded,  — 
Its  mansions,  its  spires,  its  museums  of  arts,  — 
You  should  see  the  great  dome  we  have  gorgeously  gilded; 
'T  is  the  light  of  our  eyes,  't  is  the  joy  of  our  hearts. 

When  first  in  his  path  a  young  asteroid  found  it, 
As  he  sailed  through  the  skies  with  the  stars  in  his  wake, 
He  thought 't  was  the  sun,  and  kept  circling  around  it 
Till  Edison  signalled,  "You  've  made  a  mistake." 

We  are  proud  of  our  city,  —  her  fast-growing  figure, 
The  warp  and  the  woof  of  her  brain  and  her  hands,  — 
But  we  're  proudest  of  all  that  her  heart  has  grown  bigger, 
And  warms  with  fresh  blood  as  her  girdle  expands. 


CHAPTER  VII 
BOSTON  THE  LECTURE  CRADLE 


"Now,  then,  Professor,  fortune  has  decreed 
That  you,  this  evening,  shall  be  first  to  read,  — 
Lucky  for  us  that  listen,  for  in  fact 
Who  reads  this  poem  must  know  how  to  act." 

Right  well  she  knew  that  in  his  greener  age 
He  had  a  mighty  hankering  for  the  stage. 
The  patient  audience  had  not  long  to  wait; 
Pleased  with  his  chance,  he  smiled  and  took  the  bait; 
Through  his  wild  hair  his  coaxing  fingers  ran,  — 
He  spread  the  page  before  him  and  began. 


CHAPTER   VII 

BOSTON  THE  LECTURE  CRADLE 

[The  "  lecture-habit "  of  this  country  was  in  its  heyday 
during  Dr.  Holmes's  earlier  years.  Massachusetts  was 
the  cradle  of  the  Lyceum,  first  organized  in  1829,  and 
Boston  was  the  hand  that  rocked  the  cradle.  The  found- 
ing of  the  Lowell  Institute,  which  occurred  ten  years 
later,  was  an  occurrence  of  far-reaching  importance. 
In  the  decade  of  1849-50  the  Lowell  Lectures  became 
a  vital  factor  in  the  city's  life,  and  Boston  had  the  glory 
of  being  herself  the  principal  source  of  supply.  Among 
her  sons  who  ornamented  the  lecture  platform  were 
Webster,  Choate,  Phillips,  Channing,  Sumner,  Emer- 
son, Lowell,  Starr  King,  Winthrop,  Parker,  James  Free- 
man Clarke,  Edward  Everett  Hale,  and  many  others, 
among  whom  may  be  mentioned  the  ever-popular 
"Autocrat,"  who  has  amusingly  described  the  typical 
audience  of  his  early  days.] 

Have  I  ever  acted  in  private  theatricals?  Often. 
I  have  played  the  part  of  the  "Poor  Gentleman,"  be- 
fore a  great  many  audiences,  —  more,  I  trust,  than 
I  shall  ever  face  again.  I  did  not  wear  a  stage  cos- 
tume, nor  a  wig,  nor  a  mustache  of  burnt  cork,  but  I 
was  placarded  and  announced  as  a  public  performer, 
and  at  the  proper  hour  I  came  forward  with  the  ballet- 

[  131  ] 


DR.   HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

dancer's  smile  upon  my  countenance,  and  made  my 
bow  and  acted  my  part.  I  have  seen  my  name  stuck 
up  in  letters  so  big  that  I  was  ashamed  to  show  my- 
self in  the  place  by  daylight.  I  have  gone  to  a  town 
with  a  sober  literary  essay  in  my  pocket,  and  seen 
myself  everywhere  announced  as  the  most  desperate 
of  buffos,  —  one  who  was  obliged  to  restrain  himself 
in  the  full  exercise  of  his  powers,  from  prudential 
considerations.  I  have  been  through  as  many  hard- 
ships as  Ulysses,  in  the  pursuit  of  my  histrionic  voca- 
tion. I  have  travelled  in  cars  until  the  conductors 
all  knew  me  like  a  brother.  I  have  run  off  the  rails, 
and  stuck  all  night  in  snow-drifts,  and  sat  behind 
females  that  would  have  the  window  open  when 
one  could  not  wink  without  his  eyelids  freezing 
together. 

Two  Lyceum  assemblies,  of  five  hundred  each,  are 
so  near  alike,  that  they  are  absolutely  indistinguish- 
able in  many  cases  by  any  definite  mark,  and  there  is 
nothing  but  the  place  and  time  by  which  one  can  tell 
the  "remarkably  intelligent  audience"  of  a  town  of 
New  York,  or  Ohio,  from  one  in  any  New  England 
town  of  similar  size.  .  .  .  One  knows  pretty  well  even 
the  look  the  audience  will  have,  before  he  goes  in. 

[  132  ] 


BOSTON   THE   LECTURE   CRADLE 

Front  seats :  a  few  old  folks,  —  shiny-headed,  — 
slant  up  best  ear  towards  the  speaker,  —  drop  off 
asleep  after  a  while,  when  air  begins  to  get  a  little 
narcotic  with  carbonic  acid.  Bright  women's  faces, 
young  and  middle-aged,  a  little  behind  these,  but 
toward  the  front,  —  (pick  out  the  best  and  lecture 
mainly  to  that.)  Here  and  there  a  countenance,  sharp 
and  scholarlike,  and  a  dozen  pretty  female  ones 
sprinkled  about.  An  indefinite  number  of  pairs  of 
young  people,  —  happy,  but  not  always  very  atten- 
tive. Boys,  in  the  background,  more  or  less  quiet! 
Dull  faces,  here,  there,  —  in  how  many  places !  I 
don't  say  dull  people,  but  faces  without  a  ray  of  sym- 
pathy or  movement  of  expression.  They  are  what 
kill  the  lecturer.  These  negative  faces  with  their 
vacuous  eyes  and  stony  lineaments  pump  and  suck 
the  warm  soul  out  of  him. 

[During  his  lecture-tours  about  the  country,  Dr. 
Holmes  had  an  opportunity  to  study  the  character- 
istics of  innumerable  hotels  and  taverns.] 

Don't  talk  to  me  about  taverns !  There  is  just  one 
genuine,  clean,  decent,  palatable  thing  occasionally 
to  be  had  in  them  —  namely,  a  boiled  egg.  The  soups 
taste  pretty  good  sometimes,  but  their  sources  are 

[  133  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

involved  in  a  darker  mystery  than  that  of  the  Nile. 
Omelettes  taste  as  if  they  had  been  carried  in  the 
waiter's  hat,  or  fried  in  an  old  boot.  I  ordered  scram- 
bled eggs  one  day.  It  must  be  they  had  been  scram- 
bled for  by  somebody,  but  who  —  who  in  the  posses- 
sion of  sound  reason  could  have  scrambled  for  what 
I  had  set  before  me  under  that  name?  .  .  .  Then 
the  waiters  with  their  napkins  —  what  don't  they 
do  with  those  napkins !  Mention  any  one  thing  of 
which  you  can  say  with  truth,  "That  they  do  not 
do." 

No;  give  me  a  home,  or  a  home  like  mine,  where 
all  is  clean  and  sweet,  where  coffee  has  preexisted 
in  the  berry,  and  tea  has  still  faint  recollections 
of  the  pigtails  that  dangled  about  the  plant  from 
which  it  was  picked,  where  butter  has  not  the  pre- 
vailing character  which  Pope  assigned  to  Denham, 
where  soup  could  look  you  in  the  face  if  it  had 
"eyes"  (which  it  has  not),  and  where  the  comely 
Anne  or  the  gracious  Margaret  takes  the  place  of 
these  napkin-bearing  animals. 

[In  1876  Holmes  writes  to  his  friend  Motley:] 

I  am  most  devoutly  thankful  that  my  seven 
months'  lectures  are  at  last  over,  and  I  am  gradu- 

[  134  ] 


BOSTON   THE   LECTURE   CRADLE 

ally  beginning  to  come  to  myself,  like  one  awaken- 
ing from  a  trance  or  a  fit  of  intoxication.  You 
know  that  the  steady  tramp  of  a  regiment  would 
rock  the  Menai  bridge  from  its  fastenings,  and  so 
all  military  bodies  break  their  step  in  crossing  it. 
This  reiteration  of  lectures  in  even  march,  month 
after  month,  produces  some  such  oscillations  in  one's 
mind,  and  he  longs,  after  a  certain  time,  to  break 
up  their  uniformity.  If  they  kept  on  long  enough, 
Harvard  would  move  to  Somerville.  .  .  . 

I  have  done  enough  to  know  what  work  means, 
and  should  think  I  had  been  a  hard  worker  if  I  did 
not  see  what  others  have  accomplished.  I  can  never 
look  on  those  great  histories  of  yours  and  think 
what  toil  they  cost,  what  dogged  perseverance  as 
well  as  higher  qualities  they  imply,  without  feeling 
almost  as  if  I  had  been  an  idler. 

[In  response  to  one  of  the  many  appeals  made  him 
for  patriotic  poems,  Dr.  Holmes  protests  that  there 
is  a  limit  beyond  which  even  the  poet  must  refuse  to  go. 
He  explains  that  he  has  recently  done  his  part  to  "save 
the  Old  South."] 

I  have  lectured  steadily  seven  months  from  Oc- 
tober to  May,  and  have  been  writing  for  "The  At- 
lantic" regularly  since  January,  and  I  have  promised 

[  135  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

a  gratuitous  lecture  to  a  "banquet  "  of  ladies  this 
autumn.  It  is  enough  for  me,  and  I  do  not  want  to 
plague  myself  with  pumping  up  patriotism  and 
pouring  it  into  stanzas.  I  want  to  get  away  as  soon 
as  I  can  and  lay  up  my  heels  and  do  nothing  but 
read  story-books. 

"So  easy!  just  sit  down  and  write  what  comes 
into  your  head."  Tell  that  to  the  merinoes  —  (I 
adapt  the  saying  to  the  mountain  district). 

Full  sevenscore  years  our  city's  pride  — 

The  comely  Southern  spire  — 
Has  cast  its  shadow,  and  defied 

The  storm,  the  foe,  the  fire; 
Sad  is  the  sight  our  eyes  behold; 

Woe  to  the  three-hilled  town, 
When  through  the  land  the  tale  is  told  — 

"The  brave  'Old  South'  is  down!" 

The  darkened  skies,  alas!  have  seen 

Our  monarch  tree  laid  low, 
And  spread  in  ruins  o'er  the  green, 

But  Nature  struck  the  blow; 
No  scheming  thrift  its  downfall  planned, 

It  felt  no  edge  of  steel, 
No  soulless  hireling  raised  his  hand 

The  deadly  stroke  to  deal. 

In  bridal  garlands,  pale  and  mute, 
Still  pleads  the  storied  tower; 

[  136  1 


The  Old  South  Church 


BOSTON   THE   LECTURE    CRADLE 

These  are  the  blossoms,  but  the  fruit 

Awaits  the  golden  shower; 
The  spire  still  greets  the  morning  sun,  — 

Say,  shall  it  stand  or  fall? 
Help,  ere  the  spoiler  has  begun! 

Help,  each,  and  God  help  all! 

It  costs  sw  . .  t;  it  costs  nerve-fat;  it  costs  phos- 
phorus, to  do  anything  worth  doing. 

I  must  excuse  myself.  I  have  given  what  I  could 
spare  to  the  "Old  South"  Fund.  I  have  written  a 
poem,  —  some  verses,  at  any  rate,  —  printed  in 
the  "Daily  Advertiser"  under  the  title  "A  Last 
Appeal,"  to  stir  up  people  as  much  as  I  knew  how 
to.  And  now  I  have  ground  my  tune  and  taken  my 
hand-organ  on  my  back,  I  cannot  make  up  my 
mind  to  come  back  to  the  same  doorstep  and  begin 
grinding  again.  Seriously  and  absolutely,  you  must 
call  other  street  musicians. 

If  I  do  not  look  out  I  shall  have  to  write,  instead 
of  "The  Song  of  the  Shirt,"  "The  Song  of  the 
Sheet "  (of  paper),  and  draw  tears  from  the  eyes  of 
everybody  by  the  picture:  — 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 
With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  scribbler  holding  a  used-up  pen 
Sat  racking  his  used-up  head. 

[  137  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

[In  September,  1887,  Holmes  writes  to  a  friend  in 
Europe:] 

For  the  first  time  since  some  early  date,  whether 
A.D.  or  A.  Mundi,  I  hardly  know,  I  have  got  my 
harness  off  and  am  standing  for  a  month  or  two  in 
the  stall,  so  to  speak.  In  other  words,  I  have  no 
literary  work  in  hand  at  this  moment,  and  am 
lolling  in  a  rocking-chair  at  my  autumnal  fireside. 

So  let  me  have  my  sweet  do-nothing,  as  the  Ital- 
ians say;  and  let  poor  old  Dobbin  stand  in  the  stall 
with  his  harness  off,  munching  his  hay  and  oats,  and 
thinking  when  he  is  next  to  be  trotted  out,  hoping 
it  will  not  be  yet  awhile. 

I  have  lived  so  long  stationary,  that  I  have  be- 
come intensely  local,  and  doubtless  in  many  ways 
narrow.  I  should  like  to  breathe  the  air  of  the  great 
outer  world  for  a  while,  but  I  am  so  sure  to  suffer 
from  asthmatic  trouble,  if  I  trust  myself  in  strange 
places,  that  I  consider  myself  as  a  kind  of  prisoner 
for  life,  and  am  very  thankful  that  my  condemned 
cell  is  so  much  to  my  liking.  There  are  some  valu- 
able qualities  about  an  old  provincial  friend  like  me, 
to  a  cosmopolitan  like  yourself.  He  keeps  the  home 
flavor,  a  whiff  of  which  from  his  garments  is  now 
and  then  as  pleasant,  I  am  willing  to  believe,  as  the 

[  138  ] 


BOSTON   THE   LECTURE   CRADLE 

scent  of  the  lavender  in  which  fair  linen  has  been 
laid  away  in  old  bureau  drawers.  It  is  not  the  fra- 
grance of  the  garden,  but  there  is  something  which 
reaches  the  memory  in  it  and  sets  us  thinking  of 
seasons  that  are  dead  and  gone,  and  what  they 
carried  away  with  them. 

I  am  a  little  overwhelmed  with  my  new  reputation 
as  a  gardener;  yet  as  I  have  succeeded  in  raising  as 
many  cauliflowers  and  cabbages  that  did  not  head,  as 
many  rat-tailed  carrots  and  ram's-horn  radishes,  in 
our  Cambridge  sand-patch,  which  we  called  a  gar- 
den, as  any  other  horticulturist  could  show  from  the 
same  surface  of  ground,  I  have  some  claim  to  the  title. 

I  see  some  of  the  London  journals  have  been  at- 
tacking some  of  their  literary  people  for  lecturing, 
on  the  ground  of  its  being  a  public  exhibition  of 
themselves  for  money.  .  .  .  To  this  I  reply  .  .  .  Her 
most  Gracious  Majesty,  the  Queen,  exhibits  her- 
self to  the  public  as  a  part  of  the  service  for  which 
she  is  paid.  We  do  not  consider  it  low-bred  in  her 
to  pronounce  her  own  speech,  and  should  prefer  it 
so  to  hearing  it  from  any  other  person,  or  reading 
it.  His  Grace  and  his  Lordship  exhibit  themselves 
very  often  for  popularity,  and  their  houses  every 

[  139  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

day  for  money.  —  No,  if  a  man  shows  himself 
other  than  he  is,  if  he  belittles  himself  before  an 
audience  for  hire,  then  he  acts  unworthily.  But 
a  true  word,  fresh  from  the  lips  of  a  true  man,  is 
worth  paying  for,  at  the  rate  of  eight  dollars  a  day, 
or  even  of  fifty  dollars  a  lecture.  The  taunt  must 
be  an  outbreak  of  jealousy  against  the  renowned 
authors  who  have  the  audacity  to  be  also  orators. 
The  sub-lieutenants  (of  the  press)  stick  a  too  popu- 
lar writer  and  speaker  with  an  epithet  in  England, 
instead  of  with  a  rapier,  as  in  France.  —  Poh ! 

The  weather  here  is  very  cold  and  the  spring 
puns  are  very  backward.  Early  Joe  Millers,  though 
forced  to  be  up  by  the  1st  of  April  are  like  to  yield 
but  a  poor  crop.  The  art  o'  jokes  don't  flourish.  I 
wish  you  to  see  that  we  are  some  punkins  here 
in  the  Hub  town,  though  you  have  the  demirep- 
utation  of  making  worse  puns  and  more  of  them 
in  your  city  than  are  made  in  any  other  habitable 
portion  of  the  globe. 

All  lecturers,  all  professors,  all  schoolmasters, 
have  ruts  and  grooves  in  their  minds  into  which 
their  conversation  is  perpetually  sliding.  Did  you 
never,  in  riding  through  the  woods  in  a  still  June 

[  140  ] 


BOSTON   THE   LECTURE   CRADLE 

evening,  suddenly  feel  that  you  had  passed  into  a 
warm  stratum  of  air,  and  in  a  minute  or  two  strike 
the  chill  layer  of  atmosphere  beyond?  Did  you 
never,  in  cleaving  the  green  waters  of  the  Back 
Bay,  —  where  the  Provincial  blue-noses  are  in  the 
habit  of  beating  the  "Metropolitan"  boat-clubs,  — 
find  yourself  in  a  tepid  streak,  a  narrow,  local  gulf- 
stream,  a  gratuitous  warm-bath  a  little  under- 
done, through  which  your  glistening  shoulders  soon 
flashed,  to  bring  you  back  to  the  cold  realities  of 
full-sea  temperature ! 

Just  so,  in  talking  to  any  of  the  characters  above 
referred  to,  one  not  unfrequently  finds  a  sudden 
change  in  the  style  of  the  conversation.  The  lack- 
lustre eye,  rayless  as  a  Beacon  street  door-plate  in 
August,  all  at  once  fills  with  light;  the  face  flings 
itself  wide  open  like  the  church-portals  when  the 
bride  and  bridegroom  enter;  the  little  man  grows  in 
stature  before  your  eyes,  like  the  small  prisoner  with 
hair  on  end,  beloved  yet  dreaded  in  early  childhood; 
you  were  talking  with  a  dwarf  and  an  imbecile,  — 
you  have  a  giant  and  a  trumpet-tongued  angel  be- 
fore you !  Nothing  but  a  streak  out  of  a  fifty-dollar 
lecture.  As  when,  at  some  unlooked-for  moment, 
the  mighty  fountain-column   (on   the   Common) 

[  141  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

springs  into  the  air  before  the  astonished  passer-by, 

—  silver-footed,  diamond-crowned,  rainbow-scarfed 

—  from  the  bosom  of  that  fair  sheet,  sacred  to  the 
hymns  of  quiet  batrachians  at  home,  and  the  epi- 
grams of  a  less  amiable  and  less  elevated  order  of 
reptilia  in  other  latitudes. 

Tell  me  that  old  Homer  did  not  roll  his  sightless 
eyeballs  about  with  delight,  as  he  thundered  out 
these  ringing  syllables!  It  seems  hard  to  think  of 
his  going  around  like  a  hand-organ  man,  with  such 
music  and  such  thoughts  as  his  to  earn  his  bread 
with.  One  can't  help  wishing  that  Mr.  Pugh  could 
have  got  him  for  a  single  lecture,  at  least,  of  the 
"  Star  Course,"  or  that  he  could  have  appeared  in 
the  Music  Hall,  "for  this  night  only." 

The  same  line  of  anxious  and  conscientious  effort 
which  I  saw  not  long  since  on  the  forehead  of  one 
of  the  sweetest  and  truest  singers  who  has  visited 
us;  the  same  which  is  so  striking  on  the  masks  of 
singing  women  painted  upon  the  fagade  of  our  great 
organ,  —  that  Himalayan  home  of  harmony  which 
you  are  to  see  and  then  die,  if  you  don't  live  where 
you  can  see  and  hear  it  often.  Many  deaths  have 
happened  in  a  neighboring  large  city  from  that  well- 

[  142  ] 


The  Beacon  Street  Side  of  the  Public  Garden,  in  1857,  showing 
Dr.  Holmes  and  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  in  Conversation 


BOSTON   THE   LECTURE   CRADLE 

known  complaint  Icterus  Invidiosorum,  after  re- 
turning from  a  visit  to  the  Music  Hall. 

I  don't  like  your  chopped  music  any  way.  That 
woman  —  she  had  more  sense  in  her  little  finger 
than  forty  medical  societies  —  Florence  Nightin- 
gale —  says  that  the  music  you  pour  out  is  good 
for  sick  folks,  and  the  music  you  pound  out  is  n't. 

I  have  attended  a  large  number  of  celebrations, 
commencements,  banquets,  soirees,  and  so  forth, 
and  done  my  best  to  help  on  a  good  many  of  them. 
In  fact,  I  have  become  rather  too  well  known  in 
connection  with  "occasions,"  and  it  has  cost  me  no 
little  trouble.  I  believe  there  is  no  kind  of  occur- 
rence for  which  I  have  not  been  requested  to  con- 
tribute something  in  prose  or  verse.  It  is  sometimes 
very  hard  to  say  no  to  the  requests.  If  one  is  in  the 
right  mood  when  he  or  she  writes  an  occasional 
poem,  it  seems  as  if  nothing  could  have  been  easier. 
"Why,  that  piece  run  off  jest  like  ile.  I  don't  bul- 
lieve,"  the  unlettered  applicant  says  to  himself, — 
"I  don't  bullieve  it  took  him  ten  minutes  to  write 
them  verses."  The  good  people  have  no  suspicion 
of  how  much  a  single  line,  a  single  expression,  may 
cost  its  author. 

[  143  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S  BOSTON 
I  cannot  work  many  hours  consecutively  with- 
out deranging  my  whole  circulating  and  caloric 
system.  My  feet  are  apt  to  get  cold,  my  head  hot, 
my  muscles  restless,  and  I  feel  as  if  I  must  get  up 
and  exercise  in  the  open  air.  This  is  in  the  morning, 
and  I  very  rarely  allow  myself  to  be  detained  in- 
doors later  than  twelve  o'clock.  After  fifteen  or 
twenty  minutes'  walking  I  begin  to  come  right,  and 
after  two  or  three  times  as  much  as  that  I  can  go 
back  to  my  desk  for  an  hour  or  two. 

A  new  lecture  is  just  like  any  other  new  tool.  We 
use  it  for  a  while  with  pleasure.  Then  it  blisters 
our  hands,  and  we  hate  to  touch  it.  By  and  by  our 
hands  get  callous,  and  then  we  have  no  longer  any 
sensitiveness  about  it.  But  if  we  give  it  up,  the 
callouses  disappear;  and  if  we  meddle  with  it  again, 
we  miss  the  novelty  and  get  the  blisters.  The  story 
is  often  quoted  of  Whitefield,  that  he  said  a  sermon 
was  good  for  nothing  until  it  had  been  preached 
forty  times.  A  lecture  does  n't  begin  to  be  old  until 
it  has  passed  its  hundredth  delivery;  and  some,  I 
think,  have  doubled,  if  not  quadrupled,  that  num- 
ber. These  old  lectures  are  a  man's  best  commonly; 
they  improve  by  age,  also,  —  like  the  pipes,  fiddles, 

[  144  ] 


BOSTON   THE   LECTURE   CRADLE 

and  poems  I  told  you  of  the  other  day.  One  learns 
to  make  the  most  of  their  strong  points  and  to 
carry  off  their  weak  ones,  —  to  take  out  the  really 
good  things  which  don't  tell  on  the  audience,  and 
put  in  cheaper  things  that  do.  All  this  degrades 
him,  of  course,  but  it  improves  the  lecture  for  gen- 
eral delivery.  A  thoroughly  popular  lecture  ought 
to  have  nothing  in  it  which  five  hundred  people 
cannot  all  take  in  in  a  flash,  just  as  it  is  uttered. 

I  tell  you  the  average  intellect  of  five  hundred 
persons,  taken  as  they  come,  is  not  very  high.  It 
may  be  sound  and  safe,  so  far  as  it  goes,  but  it  is 
not  very  rapid  or  profound.  A  lecture  ought  to  be 
something  which  all  can  understand,  about  some- 
thing which  interests  everybody. 

[In  1882  Dr.  Holmes  delivered  his  farewell  address  to 
the  Medical  School  of  Harvard  University.  In  the 
course  of  his  remarks  he  said :] 

There  are  three  occasions  upon  which  a  human 
being  has  a  right  to  consider  himself  as  a  centre  of 
interest  to  those  about  him :  when  he  is  christened, 
when  he  is  married,  and  when  he  is  buried.  Every 
one  is  the  chief  personage,  the  hero  of  his  own  bap- 
tism, his  own  wedding,  and  his  own  funeral. 

[  145  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

There  are  other  occasions,  less  momentous,  in 
which  one  may  make  more  of  himself  than  under 
ordinary  circumstances  he  would  think  proper  to 
do  when  he  may  talk  about  himself,  and  tell  his 
own  experiences,  in  fact,  indulge  in  a  more  or  less 
egotistic  monologue  without  fear  of  reproach. 

I  think  I  may  claim  that  this  is  one  of  those  occa- 
sions. I  have  delivered  my  last  anatomical  lecture 
and  heard  my  class  recite  for  the  last  time.  They 
wish  to  hear  from  me  again  in  a  less  scholastic  mood 
than  that  in  which  they  have  known  me.  .  .  . 

This  is  the  thirty-sixth  Course  of  Lectures  in 
which  I  have  taken  my  place  and  performed  my 
duties  as  Professor  of  Anatomy.  For  more  than 
half  of  my  term  of  office  I  gave  instruction  in  Phy- 
siology, after  the  fashion  of  my  predecessors  and  in 
the  manner  then  generally  prevalent  in  our  schools, 
where  the  physiological  laboratory  was  not  a  neces- 
sary part  of  the  apparatus  of  instruction.  It  was 
with  my  hearty  approval  that  the  teaching  of 
Physiology  was  constituted  a  separate  department 
and  made  an  independent  Professorship.  Before 
my  time,  Dr.  Warren  had  taught  Anatomy,  Physi- 
ology, and  Surgery  in  the  same  course  of  Lectures, 
lasting  only  three  or  four  months.  As  the  bounda- 

[  146  ] 


BOSTON   THE   LECTURE   CRADLE 

ries  of  science  are  enlarged,  new  divisions  and  sub- 
divisions of  its  territories  become  necessary.  In  the 
place  of  six  Professors  in  1847,  when  I  first  became 
a  member  of  the  Faculty,  I  count  twelve  upon  the 
Catalogue  before  me,  and  I  find  the  whole  number 
engaged  in  the  work  of  instruction  in  the  Medical 
School  amounts  to  no  less  than  fifty. 

Since  I  began  teaching  in  this  school,  the  aspect 
of  many  branches  of  science  has  undergone  a  veiy 
remarkable  transformation.  Chemistry  and  Physi- 
ology are  no  longer  what  they  were,  as  taught  by 
the  instructors  of  that  time.  We  are  looking  for- 
ward to  the  synthesis  of  new  organic  compounds; 
our  artificial  madder  is  already  in  the  market,  and 
the  indigo-raisers  are  now  fearing  that  their  crop 
will  be  supplanted  by  the  manufactured  article.  In 
the  living  body  we  talk  of  fuel  supplied  and  work 
done,  in  movement,  in  heat,  just  as  if  we  were  deal- 
ing with  a  machine  of  our  own  contrivance.  A  phy- 
siological laboratory  of  to-day  is  equipped  with 
instruments  of  research  of  such  ingenious  contri- 
vance, such  elaborate  construction,  that  one  might 
suppose  himself  in  a  workshop  where  some  exquis- 
ite fabric  was  to  be  wrought,  such  as  Queens  love  to 
wear,  and  Kings  do  not  always  love  to  pay  for.  They 

[  147  ] 


DR.   HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

are  indeed  weaving  a  charmed  web,  for  these  are 
the  looms  from  which  comes  the  knowledge  that 
clothes  the  nakedness  of  intellect.  .  .  . 

I  am  afraid  that  it  is  a  good  plan  to  get  rid  of  old 
Professors,  and  I  am  thankful  to  hear  that  there  is 
a  movement  for  making  provision  for  those  who 
are  left  in  need  when  they  lose  their  offices  and 
their  salaries.  ...  If  I  myself  needed  an  apology 
for  holding  my  office  so  long,  I  should  find  it  in  the 
fact  that  human  anatomy  is  much  the  same  study 
that  it  was  in  the  days  of  Vesalius  and  Fallopius, 
and  that  the  greater  part  of  my  teaching  was  of 
such  a  nature  that  it  could  never  become  antiquated. 

Old  theories,  and  old  men  who  cling  to  them, 
must  take  themselves  out  of  the  way  as  the  new 
generation  with  its  fresh  thoughts  and  altered  hab- 
its of  mind  comes  forward  to  take  the  place  of  that 
which  is  dying  out.  It  is  always  the  same  story  that 
old  men  tell  to  younger  ones,  some  few  of  whom  will 
in  their  turn  repeat  the  tale,  only  with  altered 
names  to  their  children's  children. 

I  am  grateful  to  the  roof  which  has  sheltered  me, 
and  to  the  floors  which  have  sustained  me,  though 
I  have  thought  it  safest  always  to  abstain  from  any- 

[  148  ] 


BOSTON   THE   LECTURE   CRADLE 

thing  like  eloquence,  lest  a  burst  of  too  emphatic 
applause  might  land  my  class  and  myself  in  the  cel- 
lar of  the  collapsing  structure  and  bury  us  in  the 
fate  of  Korah,  Dathan,  and  Abiram.  I  have  helped 
to  wear  these  stairs  into  hollows,  —  stairs  which  I 
trod  when  they  were  smooth  and  level,  fresh  from 
the  plane.  There  are  just  thirty-two  of  them,  as 
there  were  five  and  thirty  years  ago,  but  they  are 
steeper  and  harder  to  climb,  it  seems  to  me,  than 
they  were  then.  ...  I  have  never  been  proud  of  the 
apartment  beneath  the  seats,  in  which  my  prepara- 
tions for  lecture  were  made.  But  I  chose  it  because 
I  could  have  it  to  myself,  and  I  resign  it,  with  a 
wish  that  it  were  more  worthy  of  regret,  into  the 
hands  of  my  successor,  with  my  parting  benediction. 
Within  its  twilight  precincts  I  have  often  prayed 
for  light,  like  Ajax,  for  the  daylight  found  scanty 
entrance,  and  the  gaslight  never  illuminated  its 
dark  recesses.  May  it  prove  to  him  who  comes  after 
me  like  the  cave  of  the  Sibyl,  out  of  the  gloomy 
depths  of  which  came  the  oracles  which  shone  with 
the  rays  of  truth  and  wisdom. 

This  temple  of  learning  is  not  surrounded  by  the 
mansions  of  the  great  and  wealthy.  No  stately 
avenues  lead  up  to  its  fagades  and  portico.  I  have 

[  149  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

sometimes  felt,  when  conveying  a  distinguished 
stranger  through  its  precincts  to  its  door,  that  he 
might  question  whether  star-eyed  science  had  not 
missed  her  way  when  she  found  herself  in  this  not 
too  attractive  locality.  I  cannot  regret  that  we  — 
you,  I  should  say  —  are  soon  to  migrate  to  a  more 
favored  region,  and  carry  on  your  work  as  teachers 
and  learners  in  ampler  halls  and  under  far  more 
favorable  conditions. 

I  dare  not  be  a  coward  with  my  lips 

Who  dare  to  question  all  things  in  my  soul; 

Some  men  may  find  their  wisdom  on  their  knees, 

Some  prone  and  grovelling  in  the  dust  like  slaves; 

Let  the  meek  glowworm  glisten  in  the  dew; 

I  ask  to  lift  my  taper  to  the  sky 

As  they  who  hold  their  lamps  above  their  heads, 

Trusting  the  larger  currents  up  aloft, 

My  life  shall  be  a  challenge,  not  a  truce! 
This  is  my  homage  to  the  mighty  powers, 
To  ask  my  noblest  question,  undismayed 
By  muttered  threats  that  some  hysteric  sense 
Of  wrong  or  insult  will  convulse  the  throne 
Where  wisdom  reigns  supreme;  .  .  . 

Thou  will  not  hold  in  scorn  the  child  who  dares 
Look  up  to  Thee,  the  Father,  —  dares  to  ask 
More  than  thy  wisdom  answers. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
BOSTON  THE  BOOKISH 


If  all  the  trees  in  all  the  woods  were  men; 

And  each  and  every  blade  of  grass  a  pen; 

If  every  leaf  on  every  shrub  and  tree 

Turned  to  a  sheet  of  foolscap;  every  sea 

Were  changed  to  ink,  and  all  earth's  living  tribes 

Had  nothing  else  to  do  but  act  as  scribes, 

And  for  ten  thousand  ages,  day  and  night, 

The  human  race  should  write,  and  write,  and  write, 

Till  all  the  pens  and  paper  were  used  up, 

And  the  huge  inkstand  was  an  empty  cup, 

Still  would  the  scribblers  clustered  round  its  brink 

Call  for  more  pens,  more  paper,  and  more  ink. 


CHAPTER    VIII 

BOSTON  THE  BOOKISH 

[Dr.  Holmes  worked  enthusiastically  for  the  founda- 
tion of  the  Harvard  Medical  Library,  and  he  lived  to 
see  the  new  Boston  Public  Library  rise  upon  its  site  in 
Copley  Square;  he  delivered  a  poem  upon  the  occasion 
of  the  laying  of  the  corner-stone  of  the  new  edifice,  in 
1888.] 

A  library  like  ours  must  exercise  the  largest 
hospitality.  A  great  many  books  may  be  found  in 
every  large  collection  which  remind  us  of  those 
apostolic-looking  old  men  who  figure  on  the  plat- 
form at  out  political  and  other  assemblages. 
Some  of  them  have  spoken  words  of  wisdom  in  their 
day,  but  they  have  ceased  to  be  oracles;  some  of 
them  never  had  any  particularly  important  mes- 
sage for  humanity,  but  they  add  dignity  to  the 
meeting  by  their  presence;  they  look  wise,  whether 
they  are  so  or  not,  and  no  one  grudges  them  their 
places  of  honor. 

I  like  books,  —  I  was  born  and  bred  among  them, 
and  have  the  easy  feeling,  when  I  get  into  their 
presence,  that  a  stable  boy  has  among  horses.    I 

[  153  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 
don't  think  I  undervalue  them,  either  as  compan- 
ions or  instructors. 

s 

I  read  few  books  through.  I  remember  writing  on 
the  last  page  of  one  that  I  had  successfully  mastered, 
perlegi,  with  the  sense  that  it  was  a  great  triumph 
to  have  read  quite  through  a  volume  of  such  size. 
But  I  have  always  read  in  books  rather  than  through 
them,  and  always  with  more  profit  from  the  books 
I  read  in  than  the  books  I  read  through;  for  when  I 
set  out  to  read  through  a  book,  I  always  felt  that  I 
had  a  task  before  me,  but  when  I  read  in  a  book  it 
was  the  page  or  paragraph  that  I  wanted,  and 
which  left  its  impression  and  became  part  of  my 
intellectual  furniture. 

Some  day  I  want  to  talk  about  my  library.  It  is 
such  a  curious  collection  of  old  and  new  books,  such 
a  mosaic  of  learning  and  fancies  and  follies,  that  a 
glance  over  it  would  interest  the  company. 

I  have  a  picture  hanging  in  my  library,  a  litho- 
graph, of  which  many  of  my  readers  may  have  seen 
copies.  It  represents  a  grayhaired  old  book-lover 
at  the  top  of  a  long  flight  of  steps.  He  finds  himself 
in  clover,  so  to  speak,  among  rare  old  editions,  books 

[  154  ] 


BOSTON  THE   BOOKISH 

he  has  longed  to  look  upon  and  never  seen  before, 
rarities,  precious  old  volumes,  incunabula,  cradle- 
books,  printed  while  the  art  was  in  its  infancy,  — 
its  glorious  infancy,  for  it  was  born  a  giant.  The 
old  bookworm  is  so  intoxicated  with  the  sight  and 
handling  of  the  priceless  treasures  that  he  cannot 
bear  to  put  one  of  the  volumes  back  after  he  has 
taken  them  from  the  shelf.  So  there  he  stands,  — 
one  book  open  in  his  hands,  a  volume  under  each 
arm,  and  one  or  more  between  his  legs,  —  loaded 
with  as  many  as  he  can  possibly  hold  at  the  same 
time. 

Now,  that  is  just  the  way  in  which  the  extreme 
form  of  book-hunger  shows  itself  in  the  reader  whose 
appetite  has  become  over-developed.  He  wants  to 
read  so  many  books  that  he  over-crams  himself  with 
the  crude  materials  of  knowledge,  which  become 
knowledge  only  when  the  mental  digestion  has  time 
to  assimilate  them.  I  never  go  into  that  famous 
"Corner  Bookstore,"  and  look  over  the  new  books 
in  the  row  before  me,  as  I  enter  the  door,  without 
seeing  half  a  dozen  which  I  want  to  read,  or  at  least 
know  something  about. 

Well,  then,  there  is  no  use  in  gorging  one's  self 
with  knowledge,  and  no  need  of  self-reproach  be- 

[  155] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

cause  one  is  content  to  remain  more  or  less  ignorant 
of  many  things  which  interest  his  fellow-creatures. 
We  gain  a  good  deal  of  knowledge  through  the 
atmosphere;  we  learn  a  great  deal  by  accidental 
hearsay,  provided  we  have  the  mordant  in  our  own 
consciousness  which  makes  the  wise  remark,  the 
significant  fact,  the  instructive  incident  take  hold 
of  it.  After  the  stage  of  despair  comes  the  period  of 
consolation.  We  soon  find  that  we  are  not  so  much 
worse  off  than  most  of  our  neighbors  as  we  supposed. 
One  of  the  encouraging  signs  of  the  times  is  the 
condensed  and  abbreviated  form  in  which  knowl- 
edge is  presented  to  the  general  reader.  The  short 
biographies  of  historic  personages,  of  which  within 
the  past  few  years  many  have  appeared,  have  been 
a  great  relief  to  the  large  class  of  readers  who  want 
to  know  something,  but  not  too  much,  about  them. 

I  have  some  curious  books  in  my  library,  a  few 
of  which  I  should  like  to  say  something  about.  .  .  . 
A  library  of  a  few  thousand  volumes  ought  always 
to  have  some  books  in  it  which  the  owner  almost 
never  opens,  yet  with  whose  backs  he  is  so  well  ac- 
quainted that  he  feels  as  if  he  knew  something  of 
their  contents.   They  are  like  those  persons  whom 

[  156  1 


Park  Street  from  the  State-House  Grounds 


BOSTON   THE   BOOKISH 

we  meet  in  our  daily  walks,  with  whose  faces  and 
figures,  whose  summer  and  winter  garments, — 
whose  walking-sticks  and  umbrellas  even, —  we  feel 
acquainted,  and  yet  whose  names,  whose  business, 
whose  residences,  we  know  nothing  about.  Some  of 
these  books  are  so  formidable  in  their  dimensions, 
so  rusty  and  crabbed  in  their  aspect,  that  it  takes 
a  considerable  amount  of  courage  to  attack  them. 

Some  books  are  edifices,  to  stand  as  they  are 
built;  some  are  hewn  stones,  ready  to  form  a  part 
of  future  edifices;  some  are  quarries,  from  which 
stones  are  to  be  split  for  shaping  and  after  use. 

I  confess  that  I  am  not  in  sympathy  with  some  of 
the  movements  that  accompany  the  manifestations 
of  American  social  and  literary  independence.  .  .  . 
So  far  as  concerns  literary  independence,  if  we 
understand  by  that  getting  rid  of  our  subjection  to 
British  critisicm,  such  as  it  was  in  the  days  when 
the  question  was  asked,  "Who  reads  an  American 
book?"  we  may  consider  it  pretty  well  established. 
If  it  means  dispensing  with  punctuation,  coining 
words  at  will,  self-revelation  unrestrained  by  a 
sense  of  what  is  decorous,  declamations  in  which 

[  157  ] 


DR.   HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

everything  is  glorified  without  being  idealized, 
"poetry"  in  which  the  reader  must  make  the 
rhythms  which  the  poet  has  not  made  for  him,  then 
I  think  we  had  better  continue  literary  colonists.  .  .  . 
But  there  is  room  for  everybody  and  everything  in 
our  huge  hemisphere.  YoungAmerica  is  like  a  three- 
year-old  colt  with  his  saddle  and  bridle  just  taken 
off.  The  first  thing  he  wants  to  do  is  to  roll.  He  is  a 
droll  object,  sprawling  in  the  grass  with  his  four 
hoofs  in  the  air;  but  he  likes  it,  and  it  won't  harm 
us.  So  let  him  roll,  —  let  him  roll! 

I  have  always  believed  in  life  rather  than  books. 
I  suppose  every  day  of  earth,  with  its  hundred 
thousand  deaths  and  something  more  of  births,  with 
its  loves  and  hates,  its  triumphs  and  defeats,  its 
pangs  and  blisses,  has  more  of  humanity  in  it  than 
all  the  books  that  were  ever  written  or  put  to- 
gether. I  believe  the  flowers  growing  at  this  mo- 
ment send  up  more  fragrance  to  heaven  than  was 
ever  exhaled  from  all  the  essences  ever  distilled. 

Anybody  can  write  "poetry."  It  is  a  most  un- 
enviable distinction  to  have  published  a  thin  vol- 
ume of  verse,  which  nobody  wanted,  nobody  buys, 

[  158  ] 


BOSTON  THE   BOOKISH 

nobody  reads,  nobody  cares  for  except  the  author, 
who  cries  over  its  pathos,  poor  fellow,  and  revels  in 
its  beauties,  which  he  has  all  to  himself.  Come !  who 
will  be  my  pupils  in  a  Course,  —  Poetry  taught  in 
twelve  lessons? 

Yes,  write,  if  you  want  to,  there 's  nothing  like  trying; 

Who  knows  what  a  treasure  your  casket  may  hold? 
I  '11  show  you  that  rhyming 's  as  easy  as  lying, 

If  you  '11  listen  to  me  while  the  art  I  unfold. 

Here 's  a  book  full  of  words;  one  can  choose  as  he  fancies, 
As  a  painter  his  tint,  as  a  workman  his  tool; 

Just  think!  all  the  poems  and  plays  and  romances 
Were  drawn  out  of  this,  like  the  fish  from  a  pool! 

Just  so  with  your  verse,  —  't  is  as  easy  as  sketching,  — 
You  can  reel  off  a  song  without  knitting  your  brow, 

As  lightly  as  Rembrandt  a  drawing  or  etching; 
It  is  nothing  at  all,  if  you  only  know  how. 

Poetry  is  commonly  thought  to  be  the  language 
of  emotion.  On  the  contrary,  most  of  what  is  so 
called  proves  the  absence  of  all  passionate  excite- 
ment. It  is  a  cold-blooded,  haggard,  anxious,  wor- 
rying hunt  after  rhymes  which  can  be  made  service- 
able, after  images  which  will  be  effective,  after 
phrases  which  are  sonorous;  all  this  under  limita- 
tions which  restrict  the  natural  movements  of 
fancy  and  imagination. 

[  159  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S  BOSTON 
For  the  last  thirty  years  I  have  been  in  the  habit 
of  receiving  a  volume  of  poems  or  a  poem,  printed 
or  manuscript  —  I  will  not  say  daily,  though  I 
sometimes  receive  more  than  one  a  day,  but  at  very 
short  intervals.  I  have  been  consulted  by  hundreds 
of  writers  of  verse  as  to  the  merit  of  their  perform- 
ances, and  have  often  advised  the  writers  to  the 
best  of  my  ability.  Of  late  I  have  found  it  impos- 
sible to  attempt  to  read  critically  all  the  literary 
productions,  in  verse  and  prose,  which  have  heaped 
themselves  on  every  exposed  surface  of  my  library, 
like  snowdrifts  along  the  railroad  tracks,  —  block- 
ing my  literary  pathway,  so  that  I  can  hardly  find 
my  daily  papers. 

I  have  read  recently  that  Mr.  Gladstone  receives 
six  hundred  letters  a  day.  Perhaps  he  does  not  re- 
ceive six  hundred  letters  every  day,  but  if  he  gets 
anything  like  that  number  daily,  what  can  he  do 
with  them?  .  .  . 

I  do  not  pretend  that  I  receive  six  hundred  or  even 
sixty  letters  a  day,  but  I  do  receive  a  good  many, 
and  have  told  the  public  of  the  fact  from  time  to 
time,  under  the  pressure  of  their  constantly  in- 
creasing exactions.  As  it  is  extremely  onerous,  and 
is  soon  going  to  be  impossible,  for  me  to  keep  up  the 

[  160  ] 


BOSTON   THE   BOOKISH 

wide  range  of  correspondence  which  has  become  a 
large  part  of  my  occupation,  and  tends  to  absorb  all 
the  vital  force  which  is  left  me,  I  wish  to  enter  into 
a  final  explanation  with  the  well-meaning  but  merci- 
less taskmasters  who  have  now  for  many  years  been 
levying  their  heavy  task  upon  me.  I  have  preserved 
thousands  of  their  letters,  and  destroyed  a  very 
large  number,  after  answering  them.  .  .  . 

What  struggles  of  young  ambition,  finding  no 
place  for  its  energies,  or  feeling  its  incapacity  to 
reach  the  ideal  towards  which  it  was  striving !  What 
longings  of  disappointed,  defeated  fellow-mortals, 
trying  to  find  a  new  home  for  themselves  in  the 
heart  of  one  whom  they  have  amiably  idealized! 
And  oh,  what  hopeless  efforts  of  mediocrities  and 
inferiorities,  believing  in  themselves  as  superiorities, 
and  stumbling  on  through  limping  disappointments 
to  prostrate  failure!  Poverty  comes  pleading,  not 
for  charity,  for  the  most  part,  but  imploring  us  to 
find  a  purchaser  for  its  unmarketable  wares.  The 
unreadable  author  particularly  requests  us  to  make  a 
critical  examination  of  his  book,  and  report  to  him 
whatever  may  be  our  verdict,  —  as  if  he  wanted 
anything  but  our  praise,  and  that  very  often  to  be 
used  in  his  publisher's  advertisements. 

[  161] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

But  what  does  not  one  have  to  submit  to  who  has 
become  the  martyr  —  the  Saint  Sebastian  —  of  a 
literary  correspondence ! 

If  the  time  ever  comes  when  to  answer  all  my 
kind  unknown  friends,  even  by  dictation,  is  impos- 
sible, or  more  than  I  feel  equal  to,  I  wish  to  refer 
any  of  those  who  may  feel  disappointed  at  not  re- 
ceiving an  answer  to  the  following  general  acknowl- 
edgments :  — 

1.  I  am  always  grateful  for  any  attention  which 
shows  me  I  am  kindly  remembered. 

2.  Your  pleasant  message  has  been  read  to  me, 
and  has  been  thankfully  listened  to. 

3.  Your  book  (your  essay)  (your  poem)  has 
reached  me  safely,  and  has  received  all  the  respect- 
ful attention  to  which  it  seemed  entitled.  It  would 
take  more  than  all  the  time  I  have  at  my  disposal  to 
read  all  the  printed  matter  and  all  the  manuscripts 
which  are  sent  to  me,  and  you  would  not  ask  me  to 
attempt  the  impossible.  You  will  not,  therefore, 
expect  me  to  express  a  critical  opinion  of  your  work. 

4.  I  am  deeply  sensible  of  your  expressions  of  per- 
sonal attachment  to  me  as  an  author  of  certain  writ- 
ings which  have  brought  me  very  near  to  you,  — 
in  virtue  of  some  affinity  in  our  ways  of  thought  and 

[  162  ] 


BOSTON   THE   BOOKISH 

moods  of  feeling.  Although  I  cannot  keep  up  the 
correspondences  with  many  of  my  readers  who  seem 
to  be  thoroughly  congenial  with  myself,  let  them  be 
assured  that  their  letters  have  been  read  or  heard 
with  peculiar  gratification,  and  are  preserved  as 
precious  treasures. 

What  a  blessed  thing  it  is,  that  Nature,  when  she 
invented,  manufactured  and  patented  her  authors, 
contrived  to  make  critics  out  of  the  chips  that  were 
left!  Painful  as  the  task  is,  they  never  fail  to  warn 
the  author,  in  the  most  impressive  manner,  of  the 
probabilities  of  failure  in  what  he  has  undertaken. 
Sad  as  the  necessity  is  to  their  delicate  sensibilities, 
they  never  hesitate  to  advise  him  of  the  decline  of 
his  powers,  and  to  press  upon  him  the  propriety  of 
retiring  before  he  sinks  into  imbecility. 

No  more  our  foolish  passions  and  affections 
The  tragic  Muse  with  mimic  grief  shall  try, 

But,  nobler  far,  a  course  of  vivisections 

Teach  what  it  costs  a  tortured  brute  to  die. 

Instead  of  crack-brained  poets  in  their  attics 
Filling  thin  volumes  with  their  flowery  talk, 

There  shall  be  books  of  wholesome  mathematics; 
The  tutor  with  his  blackboard  and  his  chalk. 

[  163  ] 


/ 


DR.   HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

No  longer  bards  with  madrigal  and  sonnet 

Shall  woo  to  moonlight  walks  the  ribboned  sex, 

But  side  by  side  the  beaver  and  the  bonnet 
Stroll,  calmly  pondering  on  some  problem's  x. 

The  sober  bliss  of  serious  calculation 

Shall  mock  the  trivial  joys  that  fancy  drew, 

And,  oh,  the  rapture  of  a  solved  equation,  — 
One  selfsame  answer  on  the  lips  of  two ! 

It  seems  to  me,  I  said,  that  the  great  additions 
which  have  been  made  by  realism  to  the  territory 
of  literature  consist  largely  in  swampy,  malarious, 
ill-smelling  patches  of  soil  which  had  previously 
been  left  to  reptiles  and  vermin.  It  is  perfectly  easy 
to  be  original  by  violating  the  laws  of  decency  and 
the  canons  of  good  taste.  The  general  consent  of 
civilized  people  was  supposed  to  have  banished  cer- 
tain subjects  from  the  conversation  of  well-bred  peo- 
ple and  the  pages  of  respectable  literature.  There 
is  no  subject,  or  hardly  any,  which  may  not  be 
treated  of  at  the  proper  time,  in  the  proper  place, 
by  the  fitting  person,  for  the  right  kind  of  listener 
or  reader.  But  when  the  poet  or  the  story-teller 
invades  the  province  of  the  man  of  science,  he  is  on 
dangerous  ground.  I  need  say  nothing  of  the  blun- 
ders he  is  pretty  sure  to  make.    The  imaginative 

[  164  ] 


BOSTON   THE   BOOKISH 

writer  is  after  effects.  The  scientific  man  is  after 
truth.  Science  is  decent,  modest;  does  not  try  to 
startle,  but  to  instruct.  The  same  scenes  and  ob- 
jects which  outrage  every  sense  of  delicacy  in  the 
story-teller's  highly  colored  paragraphs  can  be  read 
without  giving  offense  in  the  chaste  language  of  the 
physiologist  or  the  physician.  In  this  matter  of  the 
literal  reproduction  of  sights  and  scenes  which  our 
natural  instinct  and  our  better  informed  taste  and 
judgment  teach  us  to  avoid,  art  has  been  far  in  ad- 
vance of  literature. 

Who  does  not  remember  odious  images  that  can 
never  be  washed  out  from  the  consciousness  which 
they  have  stained?  .  .  .  Expressions  and  thoughts 
of  a  certain  character  stain  the  fibre  of  the  thinking 
organ,  and  in  some  degree  affect  the  hue  of  every 
idea  that  passes  through  the  discolored  tissues. 

This  puerile  hunting  after  details,  this  cold  and 
cynical  inventory  of  all  the  wretched  conditions  in 
the  midst  of  which  poor  humanity  vegetates,  not 
only  do  not  help  us  to  understand  it  better,  but,  on 
the  contrary,  the  effect  on  the  spectators  is  a  kind 
of  dazzled  confusion  mingled  with  fatigue  and  dis- 
gust. .  .  .  Truth  is  lost  in  its  own  excess. 

I  confess  that  I  am  a  little  jealous  of  certain  ten- 
[  165  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

dencies  in  our  own  American  literature,  which  led 
one  of  the  severest  and  most  outspoken  of  our  sa- 
tirical fellow-countrymen,  no  longer  living  to  be 
called  to  account  for  it,  to  say,  in  a  moment  of  bit- 
terness, that  the  mission  of  America  was  to  vulgar- 
ize mankind. 

Our  American  atmosphere  is  vocal  with  the  flip- 
pant loquacity  of  half  knowledge.  We  must  accept 
whatever  good  can  be  got  out  of  it,  and  keep  it  under 
as  we  do  sorrel  and  mullein  and  witchgrass,  by  en- 
riching the  soil,  and  sowing  good  seed  in  plenty;  by 
good  teaching  and  good  books,  rather  than  by  wast- 
ing our  time  in  talking  against  it.  Half  knowledge 
dreads  nothing  but  whole  knowledge. 

The  difference  between  green  and  seasoned  knowl- 
edge is  very  great. 

What  glorifies  a  town  like  a  cathedral?  What  dig- 
nifies a  province  like  a  university?  What  illumines 
a  country  like  its  scholarship,  and  what  is  the  nest 
that  hatches  scholars  but  a  library? 

Thus,  then,  our  library  is  a  temple  as  truly  as  the 
dome-crowned  cathedral  hallowed  by  the  breath  of 
prayer  and  praise,  where  the  dead  repose  and  the 

[  166] 


The  Museum  of  Fine  Arts,  Copley  Square 


BOSTON   THE   BOOKISH 

living  worship.  May  all  its  treasures  be  consecrated 
like  that  to  the  glory  of  God,  through  the  contribu- 
tions it  shall  make  to  the  advancement  of  sound 
knowledge  .  .  .  and  to  the  common  cause  in  which 
all  good  men  are  working,  the  furtherance  of  the 
well-being  of  their  fellow-creatures ! 

Proudly,  beneath  her  glittering  dome, 
Our  three-hilled  city  greets  the  morn; 

Here  Freedom  found  her  virgin  home,  — 
The  Bethlehem  where  her  babe  was  born. 

Let  in  the  light!  from  every  age 

Some  gleams  of  garnered  wisdom  pour, 

And,  fixed  on  thought's  electric  page, 
Wait  all  their  radiance  to  restore. 

Let  in  the  light!  these  windowed  walls 
Shall  brook  no  shadowing  colonnades, 

But  day  shall  flood  the  silent  halls 
Till  o  'er  yon  hills  the  sunset  fades. 

Behind  the  ever  open  gate 

No  pikes  shall  fence  a  crumbling  throned 
No  lackeys  cringe,  no  courtiers  wait,  — 

This  palace  is  the  people's  own! 

Here  shall  the  sceptred  mistress  reign 
Who  heeds  her  meanest  subject's  call, 

Sovereign  of  all  their  vast  domain, 
The  queen,  the  handmaid  of  them  all! 


CHAPTER  IX 
BOSTON  ELMS  AND  THE  LONG  PATH 


The  elms  have  robed  their  slender  spray 
With  full-blown  flower  and  embryo  leaf; 

Wide  o'er  the  clasping  arch  of  day 
Soars  like  a  cloud  their  hoary  chief. 

See  the  proud  tulip's  flaunting  cup, 
That  flames  in  glory  for  an  hour,  — 

Behold  it  withering,  —  then  look  up,  — 
How  meek  the  forest  monarch's  flower! 

When  wake  the  violets,  Winter  dies; 

When  sprout  the  elm-buds,  Spring  is  near; 
When  lilacs  blossom,  Summer  cries, 
"Bud,  little  roses!  Spring  is  here!" 


CHAPTER  IX 

BOSTON  ELMS  AND  THE  LONG  PATH 

[Dr.  Holmes  cherished  a  lifelong  enthusiasm  for 
trees,  and  while  on  his  lecture  tours  about  the  country, 
he  was  wont  to  carry  in  his  pocket  a  measuring  tape, 
which  he  stretched  about  the  girth  of  any  especial  tree 
giant  that  he  encountered.  During  his  travels  abroad, 
he  delighted  to  compare  the  measurements  of  the  great 
trees  in  foreign  countries  with  those  of  his  own  land, 
and  he  was  keenly  elated  when  his  "home  trees"  proved 
winners  in  the  contest  of  dimension.] 

It  has  always  been  a  favorite  idea  of  mine  to 
bring  the  life  of  the  Old  and  the  New  World  face 
to  face  by  an  accurate  comparison  of  their  various 
types  of  organization.  We  should  begin  with  man, 
of  course;  institute  a  large  and  exact  comparison 
between  the  development  of  la  pianta  umana,  as 
Alfieri  called  it,  in  different  sections  of  each  country, 
in  the  different  callings,  at  different  ages,  estimat- 
ing the  height,  weight,  force  by  the  dynamometer 
and  the  spirometer,  and  finishing  off  with  a  series 
of  typical  photographs,  giving  the  principal  na- 
tional physiognomies.  Then  I  would  follow  this  up 

[  171  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

by  contrasting  the  various  parallel  forms  of  life  in 
the  two  continents.  .  .  .  The  American  elm  is  tall, 
graceful,  slender-sprayed,  and  drooping  as  if  from 
languor.  The  English  elm  is  compact,  robust,  holds 
its  branches  up,  and  carries  its  leaves  for  weeks 
longer  than  our  own  native  tree. 

Is  this  typical  of  the  creative  force  on  the  two 
sides  of  the  ocean,  or  not? 

The  most  interesting  comparison  I  made  was 
between  the  New  England  and  the  Old  England 
elms.  It  is  not  necessary  to  cross  the  ocean  to  do 
this,  as  we  have  both  varieties  growing  side  by  side 
in  our  parks,  —  on  Boston  Common,  for  instance. 
It  is  wonderful  to  note  how  people  will  lie  about 
big  trees.  There  must  be  as  many  as  a  dozen  trees, 
each  of  which  calls  itself  the  "largest  elm  in  New 
England."  In  my  younger  days,  when  I  never 
travelled  without  a  measuring  tape  in  my  pocket, 
it  amused  me  to  see  how  meek  one  of  the  great 
swaggering  elms  would  look  when  it  saw  the  fatal 
measure  begin  to  unreel  itself.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
the  leaves  actually  trembled  as  the  inexorable  band 
encircled  the  trunk  in  the  smallest  place  it  could  find, 
which  is  the  only  safe  rule.  The  English  elm  (Ulmus 

[  172  ] 


Tremont  Street  Mall,  now  called  Lafayette  Mall,  Boston  Common 


BOSTON   ELMS 

campestris)  as  we  see  it  in  Boston,  comes  out  a  little 
earlier,  perhaps,  than  our  own,  but  the  difference 
is  slight.  It  holds  its  leaves  long  after  our  elms  are 
bare.  It  grows  upward,  with  abundant  dark  foli- 
age, while  ours  spreads,  sometimes  a  hundred  and 
twenty  feet,  and  often  droops  like  a  weeping  willow. 
The  English  elm  looks  like  a  much  more  robust  tree 
than  ours,  yet  they  tell  me  it  is  very  fragile,  and 
that  its  limbs  are  constantly  breaking  off  in  high 
winds,  just  as  happens  with  our  native  elms.  Ours 
is  not  a  very  long-lived  tree;  between  two  and 
three  hundred  years  is,  I  think,  the  longest  life  that 
can  be  hoped  for  it. 

There  is  a  hint  of  a  typical  difference  in  the  Amer- 
ican and  the  Englishman  which  I  have  long  recog- 
nized in  the  two  elms  as  compared  to  each  other. 
It  may  be  fanciful,  but  I  have  thought  that  the 
correctness  and  robustness  about  the  English  elm, 
which  are  replaced  by  the  long  tapering  limbs  and 
willowy  grace  and  far-spreading  reach  of  our  own, 
might  find  a  certain  parallelism  in  the  people,  es- 
pecially the  females  of  the  two  countries. 

I  saw  no  horse-chestnuts  equal  to  those  I  re-: 
member  in  Salem,  and  especially  to  one  in  Rock- 
port,  which  is  the  largest  and  finest  I  have  ever  seen; 

[  173  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

no  willows  like  those  I  pass  in  my  daily  drives.  .  .  . 
No  apple-trees  I  saw  in  England  compare  with  one 
next  my  own  door,  and  there  are  many  others  as 
fine  in  the  neighborhood. 

I  saw  the  poet  [Tennyson]  to  the  best  advantage, 
under  his  own  trees  and  walking  over  his  own  do- 
main. He  took  delight  in  pointing  out  to  me  the 
finest  and  rarest  of  his  trees,  —  and  there  were 
many  beauties  among  them.  I  recalled  my  morn- 
ing's visit  to  Whittier  at  Oak  Knoll,  in  Danvers,  a 
little  more  than  a  year  ago,  when  he  led  me  to  one 
of  his  favorites,  an  aspiring  evergreen  which  shot 
up  like  a  flame.  I  thought  of  the  graceful  Ameri- 
can elms  in  front  of  Longfellow's  house,  and  the 
sturdy  English  elms  that  stand  in  front  of  Lowell's. 
In  this  garden  of  England,  the  Isle  of  Wight,  where 
everything  grows  with  such  a  lavish  extravagance 
of  greenness  that  it  seems  as  if  it  must  bankrupt 
the  soil  before  autumn,  I  felt  as  if  weary  eyes  and 
overtasked  brains  might  reach  their  happiest  haven 
of  rest.  .  .  .  We  find  our  most  soothing  companion- 
ship in  the  trees  among  which  we  have  lived,  some 
of  which  we  may  ourselves  have  planted.  We  lean 
against  them,  and  they  never  betray  our  trust; 

[  174  1 


BOSTON  ELMS 

they  shield  us  from  the  sun  and  from  the  rain;  their 
spring  welcome  is  a  new  birth,  which  never  loses  its 
freshness;  they  lay  their  beautiful  robes  at  our  feet 
in  autumn;  in  winter  they  "stand  and  wait,"  em- 
blems of  patience  and  of  truth,  for  they  hide  noth- 
ing, not  even  the  little  leaf-buds  which  hint  to 
us  of  hope,  the  last  element  in  their  triple  sym- 
bolism. 

I  have  owned  many  beautiful  trees,  and  loved 
many  more  outside  my  own  leafy  harem.  Those 
who  write  verses  have  no  special  claim  to  be  lovers 
of  trees,  but  so  far  as  one  is  of  the  poetical  tempera- 
ment he  is  likely  to  be  a  tree-lover.  Poets  have,  as 
a  rule,  more  than  the  average  nervous  sensibility 
and  irritability .  Trees  have  no  nerves .  They  live  and 
die  without  suffering,  without  self-questioning  or 
self-reproach.  They  have  the  divine  gift  of  silence. 
They  cannot  obtrude  upon  the  solitary  moments 
when  one  is  to  himself  the  most  agreeable  of  com- 
panions. 

The  poet  is  a  luxury,  and  if  you  want  him  you 
must  pay  for  him,  by  not  trying  to  make  a  drudge 
of  him,  while  he  is  all  his  lifetime  struggling  with 
the  chills  and  heats  of  his  artistic  intermittent 
fever. 

[  175] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

Say  not  the  Poet  dies ! 

Though  in  the  dust  he  lies, 
He  cannot  forfeit  his  melodious  breath, 

Unsphered  by  envious  death! 
Life  drops  the  voiceless  myriads  from  its  roll; 

Their  fate  he  cannot  share, 

Who,  in  the  enchanted  air 
Sweet  with  the  lingering  strains  that  Echo  stole, 
Has  left  his  dearer  self,  the  music  of  his  soul! 

Count  not  our  Poet  dead ! 

The  stars  shall  watch  his  bed, 
The  rose  of  June  its  fragrant  life  renew 

His  blushing  mound  to  strew, 
And  all  the  tuneful  throats  of  summer  swell 

With  trills  as  crystal-clear 

As  when  he  wooed  the  ear 
Of  the  young  muse  that  haunts  each  wooded  dell, 
With  songs  of  that  "rough land"  he  loved  so  long  and  well! 

He  sleeps;  he  cannot  die! 

As  evening's  long-drawn  sigh, 
Lifting  the  rose-leaves  on  his  peaceful  mound, 

Spreads  all  their  sweets  around, 
So,  laden  with  his  song,  the  breezes  blow 

From  where  the  rustling  sedge 

Frets  our  rude  ocean's  edge 
To  the  smooth  sea  beyond  the  peaks  of  snow. 
His  soul  the  air  enshrines  and  leaves  but  dust  below! 

A  walk  through  the  grounds  of  Magdalen  College, 
under  the  guidance  of  the  president  of  that  college, 

[  176  ] 


BOSTON   ELMS 

showed  us  some  of  the  fine  trees  for  which  I  was 
always  looking.  One  of  these,  a  wych-elm  (Scotch 
elm  of  some  books),  was  so  large  that  I  insisted 
upon  having  it  measured.  A  string  was  procured 
and  carefully  carried  round  the  trunk,  above  the 
spread  of  the  roots  and  below  that  of  the  branches, 
so  as  to  give  the  smallest  circumference.  I  was  cu- 
rious to  know  how  the  size  of  the  trunk  of  this  tree 
would  compare  with  that  of  the  trunks  of  some  of 
our  largest  New  England  elms. 

I  have  measured  a  good  many  of  these.  About 
sixteen  feet  is  the  measurement  of  a  large  elm,  like 
that  on  Boston  Common,  which  all  middle-aged 
people  remember.  From  twenty-two  to  twenty- 
three  feet  is  the  ordinary  maximum  of  the  very  larg- 
est trees.  I  never  found  but  one  to  exceed  it:  that 
was  the  great  Springfield  elm,  which  looked  as  if  it 
might  have  been  formed  by  the  coalescence,  from 
the  earliest  period  of  growth,  of  two  young  trees. 
When  I  measured  this  in  1837,  it  was  twenty -four 
feet  eight  inches  in  circumference  at  five  feet  from 
the  ground;  growing  larger  above  and  below.  I  re- 
member this  tree  well,  as  we  measured  the  string 
that  was  to  tell  the  size  of  its  English  rival.  As  we 
came  near  the  end  of  the  string,  I  felt  as  I  did  when 

[  177  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

I  was  looking  at  the  last  dash  of  Ormonde  and  the 
Bard  of  Epsom.  —  Twenty  feet,  and  a  long  piece 
of  string  left.  —  Twenty-one.  —  Twenty -two.  — 
Twenty-three.  —  An  extra  heart-beat  or  two.  — 
Twenty-four!  Twenty-five  and  six  inches  over!! 
The  Springfield  elm  may  have  grown  a  foot  or 
more  since  I  measured  it,  fifty  years  ago,  but  the 
tree  at  Magdalen  stands  ahead  of  all  my  old  meas- 
urements. Many  of  the  fine  old  trees,  this  in  par- 
ticular, may  have  been  known  in  their  younger 
days  to  Addison,  whose  favorite  walk  is  still 
pointed  out  to  the  visitor. 

I  never  saw  more  than  two  or  three  good  photo- 
graphs of  American  elms.  The  best  is  a  large  one 
of  the  "Johnson  Elm"  about  three  miles  from  Prov- 
idence, one  of  the  finest  trees,  as  it  was  when  I  used 
to  visit  it  in  New  England.  This  was  sent  me, 
framed  by  my  nephew  Dr.  Parsons,  of  Providence, 
who  may  be  in  possession  of  the  negative.  ...  I 
have  stereographs  of  the  Boston  Elm,  before  its 
present  condition  of  decadence,  and  one  of  the 
Washington  Elm,  the  last  a  fair  specimen  of  the 
tree,  but  neither  of  them  equal  to  the  great  John- 
son Elm. 

[  178] 


BOSTON   ELMS 

I  have  brought  down  a  slice  of  hemlock  to  show 
you.  Tree  blew  down  in  my  woods  (that  were)  in 
1852.  Twelve  feet  and  a  half  round,  fair  girth;  nine 
feet  where  I  got  my  section,  higher  up.  This  is  a 
wedge,  going  to  the  centre,  of  the  general  shape  of  a 
slice  of  apple-pie  in  a  large  and  not  opulent  family. 
Length  about  eighteen  inches.  I  have  studied  the 
growth  of  this  tree  by  its  rings,  and  it  is  curious. 
Three  hundred  and  forty -two  rings.  Started,  there- 
fore, about  1510,  The  thickness  of  the  rings  tells 
the  rate  at  which  it  grew.  Look  here.  Here  are 
some  human  lives  laid  down  against  the  periods  of 
its  growth,  to  which  they  corresponded.  This  is 
Shakespeare's.  The  tree  was  seven  inches  in  diam- 
eter when  he  was  born ;  ten  inches  when  he  died.  A 
little  less  than  ten  inches  when  Milton  was  born; 
seventeen  when  he  died.  Then  comes  a  long  inter- 
val, and  this  thread  marks  out  Johnson's  life,  dur- 
ing which  the  tree  increased  from  twenty-two  to 
twenty-nine  inches  in  diameter.  Here  is  the  span  of 
Napoleon's  career,  —  the  tree  does  n't  seem  to  have 
minded  it. 

I  never  saw  the  man  who  was  not  startled  at 
looking  on  this  section,  —  I  have  seen  many  wooden 
preachers,  —  never  one  like  this.   How  much  more 

[  179  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

striking  would  be  the  calendar  counted  on  the  rings 
of  one  of  these  awful  trees  which  were  standing 
when  Christ  was  on  earth,  and  where  that  brief 
mortal  life  is  chronicled  with  the  stolid  apathy  of 
vegetable  being,  which  remembers  all  human  his- 
tory as  a  thing  of  yesterday  in  its  own  dateless  ex- 
istance ! 

What  makes  a  first-class  elm?  —  Why  size,  in 
the  first  place,  and  chiefly.  Anything  over  twenty 
feet  of  clear  girth,  five  feet  above  the  ground,  and 
with  a  spread  of  branches  a  hundred  feet  across, 
may  claim  that  title,  according  to  my  scale. 

Elms  of  the  second-class,  generally  ranging  from 
fourteen  to  eighteen  feet,  are  comparatively  com- 
mon. The  queen  of  them  all  is  that  glorious  tree 
near  one  of  the  churches  in  Springfield.  Beautiful 
and  stately  she  is  beyond  all  praise.  The  "great 
tree  "  on  Boston  Common  comes  in  the  second  rank, 
as  does  the  one  at  Cohasset,  which  used  to  have, 
and  probably  has  still  a  head  as  round  as  an  apple, 
and  near  them  one  at  Newburyport,  with  scores 
of  others  which  might  be  mentioned. 

Eternal  Truth!  beyond  our  hopes  and  fears 
Sweep  the  vast  orbits  of  thy  myriad  spheres! 

[  180] 


BOSTON   ELMS 

From  age  to  age,  while  History  carves  sublime 
On  her  waste  rock  the  flaming  curves  of  time, 
How  the  wild  swayings  of  our  planet  show 
That  worlds  unseen  surround  the  world  we  know. 

There  was  no  place  so  favorable  as  the  Common 
for  the  study  of  the  heavens.  The  skies  were  bril- 
liant with  stars,  and  the  air  was  just  keen  enough 
to  remind  our  young  friend  that  the  cold  season 
was  at  hand.  They  wandered  round  for  a  while, 
and  at  last  found  themselves  under  the  Great  Elm, 
drawn  hither,  no  doubt,  by  the  magnetism  it  is  so 
well  known  to  exert  over  the  natives  of  its  own  soil 
and  those  who  have  often  been  under  the  shadow  of 
its  outstretched  arms. 

The  venerable  survivor  of  its  contemporaries 
that  flourished  in  the  days  when  Blackstone  rode 
beneath  it  on  his  bull,  was  now  a  good  deal  broken 
by  age,  yet  not  without  marks  of  lusty  vitality.  It 
has  been  wrenched  and  twisted  and  battered  by  so 
many  scores  of  winters  that  some  of  its  limbs  were 
crippled  and  many  of  its  joints  were  shaky,  and  but 
for  the  support  of  the  iron  braces  that  lent  their 
strong  sinews  to  its  more  infirm  members  it  would 
have  gone  to  pieces  in  the  first  strenuous  north- 
easter or  the  first  sudden  and  violent  gale  from  the 

[181  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

southwest.  But  there  it  stood  .  .  .  though  its  obit- 
uary was  long  ago  written  after  one  of  the  ter- 
rible storms  that  tore  its  branches,  —  leafing  out 
hopefully  in  April  as  if  it  were  trying  in  its  dumb 
language  to  lisp  "Our  Father,"  and  dropping  its 
slender  burden  of  foliage  in  October  as  softly  as  if 
it  were  whispering  Amen ! 

Not  far  from  the  ancient  and  monumental  tree 
lay  a  small  sheet  of  water,  once  agile  with  life  and 
vocal  with  evening  melodies,  but  now  stirred  only 
by  the  swallow  as  he  dips  his  wing,  or  by  the  morn- 
ing bath  of  the  English  sparrows,  those  high-headed, 
thick-bodied,  full-feeding,  hot-tempered  little  John 
Bulls  that  keep  up  such  a  swashing  and  swabbing 
and  spattering  round  all  the  water  basins,  one 
might  think  from  the  fuss  they  make  about  it  that  a 
bird  never  took  a  bath  here  before,  and  that  they 
were  the  missionaries  of  ablution  to  the  unwashed 
Western  world. 

There  are  those  who  speak  lightly  of  this  small 
aqueous  expanse,  the  eye  of  the  sacred  enclosure, 
which  has  looked  unwinking  on  the  happy  faces  of 
so  many  natives  and  the  curious  features  of  so 
many  strangers.  The  music  of  its  twilight  minstrels 
has  long  ceased,  but  their  memory  lingers  like  an 

[  182  1 


The  Old  Elm,  Boston  Common 


BOSTON   ELMS 

echo  in  the  name  it  bears.  Cherish  it,  inhabitants 
of  the  two-hilled  city,  once  three-hilled;  ye  who 
have  said  to  the  mountain  "Remove  hence,"  and 
turned  the  sea  into  dry  land!  May  no  contractor 
fill  his  pockets  by  undertaking  to  fill  thee,  thou 
granite-girdled  lakelet,  or  drain  the  civic  purse  by 
drawing  off  thy  waters !  For  art  thou  not  the  Palla- 
dium of  our  Troy?  Didst  thou  not,  like  the  Divine 
image  which  was  the  safeguard  of  Ilium,  fall  from 
the  skies,  and  if  the  Trojan  could  look  with  pride 
upon  the  heaven-descended  form  of  the  Goddess  of 
Wisdom,  cannot  he  who  dwells  by  thy  shining  oval 
look  in  that  mirror  and  contemplate  Himself, — 
the  Native  of  Boston? 

Will  you  walk  out  and  look  at  those  elms  with 
me  after  breakfast?  —  I  said  to  the  schoolmistress. 

We  walked  under  Mr.  Paddock's  row  of  English 
elms.  The  gray  squirrels  were  looking  for  their 
breakfasts,  and  one  of  them  came  towards  us  in 
light,  soft,  intermittent  leaps,  until  he  was  close  to 
the  rail  of  the  burial-ground.  He  was  on  a  grave 
with  a  broad  blue-slatestone  at  its  head,  and  a  shrub 
growing  on  it.  The  stone  said  this  was  the  grave 
of  a  young  man  who  was  the  son  of  an  Honorable 

[  183  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

gentleman,  who  died  a  hundred  years  ago  and  more. 
Oh,  yes,  died,  —  with  a  small  triangular  mark  on 
one  breast,  and  another  smaller  opposite?  in  his  back, 
where  another  young  man's  rapier  had  slid  through 
his  body;  and  so  he  lay  out  there  on  the  Common, 
and  was  found  cold  the  next  morning,  with  the  night- 
dews  and  the  death-dews  mingled  on  his  forehead. 

Let  us  have  a  look  at  poor  Benjamin's  grave,  — 
said  I.  —  His  bones  lie  where  his  body  was  laid  so 
long  ago,  and  where  the  stone  says  they  lie,  — 
which  is  more  than  can  be  said  of  most  of  the  ten- 
ants of  this  and  several  other  burial-grounds. 

The  most  accursed  act  of  Vandalism  ever  com- 
mitted within  my  knowledge  was  the  uprooting  of 
the  ancient  gravestones  in  three  at  least  of  our  city 
burial-grounds,  and  one  at  least  just  outside  the 
city,  and  planting  them  in  rows  to  suit  the  taste  for 
symmetry  of  the  perpetrators.  Many  years  ago, 
when  this  disgraceful  process  was  going  on  under 
my  eyes,  I  addressed  an  indignant  remonstrance  to 
a  leading  journal.  I  suppose  it  was  deficient  in  lit- 
erary elegance,  or  too  warm  in  its  language;  for  no 
notice  was  taken  of  it,  and  the  hyena  horror  was 
allowed  to  complete  itself  in  the  face  of  daylight. 
I  have  never  got  over  it. 

[  184  1 


The  Tremont  House,  1886 


BOSTON   ELMS 

The  bones  of  my  own  ancestors,  being  entombed, 
lie  beneath  their  own  tablet;  but  the  upright  stones 
have  been  shuffled  about  like  chessmen,  and  noth- 
ing short  of  the  Day  of  Judgment  will  tell  whose 
dust  lies  beneath  any  of  those  records,  meant  by 
affection  to  mark  one  small  spot  as  sacred  to  some 
cherished  memory.  Shame!  Shame!  Shame!  that 
is  all  I  can  say.  It  was  on  public  thoroughfares, 
under  the  eye  of  authority,  that  this  infamy  was 
enacted.  The  red  Indians  would  have  known  bet- 
ter; the  selectmen  of  an  African  kraal- village  would 
have  had  more  respect  for  their  ancestors.  I  should 
like  to  see  the  gravestones  which  have  been  dis- 
turbed all  removed,  and  the  ground  levelled,  leav- 
ing the  flat  tombstones ;  epitaphs  were  never  famous 
for  truth,  but  the  old  reproach  of  "Here  lies"  never 
had  such  a  wholesale  illustration  as  in  these  out- 
raged burial-places,  where  the  stone  does  He  above 
and  the  bones  do  not  lie  beneath. 

Stop  before  we  turn  away,  and  breathe  a  woman's 
sigh  over  poor  Benjamin's  dust.  Love  killed  him  I 
think.  Twenty  years  old,  and  there  fighting  another 
young  fellow  on  the  Common  in  the  cool  of  that  old 
July  evening;  yes,  there  must  have  been  love  at  the 
bottom  of  it. 

[  185  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

The  schoolmistress  dropped  a  rosebud  she  had  in 
her  hand,  through  the  rails,  upon  the  grave  of  Ben- 
jamin Woodbridge. 

We  came  opposite  the  head  of  a  place  or  court 
running  eastward  from  the  main  street.  —  Look 
down  there,  —  I  said,  —  My  friend,  the  Professor, 
lived  in  that  house  at  the  left  hand  for  years  and 
years.  He  died  out  of  it,  the  other  day.  —  Died?  — 
said  the  schoolmistress.  —  Certainly,  —  said  I.  We 
die  out  of  houses,  just  as  we  die  out  of  our  bodies. 
A  commercial  smash  kills  a  hundred  men's  houses  for 
them,  as  a  railroad  crash  kills  their  mortal  frames 
and  drives  out  the  immortal  tenants.  Men  sicken  of 
houses  until  at  last  they  quit  them,  as  the  soul  leaves 
its  body  when  it  is  tired  of  its  infirmities.  The  body 
has  been  called  "the  house  we  live  in";  the  house  is 
quite  as  much  the  body  we  live  in. 

The  schoolmistress  and  I  had  pleasant  walks  and 
long  talks.  .  .  . 

My  idea  was,  in  the  first  place,  to  search  out  the 
picturesque  spots  which  the  city  affords  a  sight  of, 
to  those  who  have  eyes.  I  know  a  good  many  and  it 
was  a  pleasure  to  look  at  them  in  company  with  my 
young  friend.  There  were  the  shrubs  and  flowers  in 
the  Franklin-Place  front-yards  or  borders:  Com- 

[  186  ] 


The  Long  Path,  Boston  Common 


BOSTON   ELMS 

merce  is  just  putting  his  granite  foot  upon  them. 
Then  there  are  certain  small  seraglio-gardens,  into 
which  one  can  get  a  peep  through  the  crevices  of 
high  fences,  —  one  in  Myrtle  Street,  or  at  the  back 
of  it,  —  here  and  there  one  at  the  North  and  South 
Ends.  Then  the  great  elms  in  Essex  Street.  Then 
the  stately  horsechestnuts  in  that  vacant  lot  in 
Chambers  Street,  which  hold  their  outspread  hand 
over  your  head  (as  I  said  in  my  poem  the  other  day), 
and  look  as  if  they  were  whispering,  "May  grace, 
mercy,  and  peace  be  with  you!"  —  and  the  rest  of 
the  benediction.  Nay,  there  are  certain  patches  of 
ground,  which,  having  lain  neglected  for  a  time, 
Nature,  who  always  has  her  pockets  full  of  seeds, 
and  holes  in  her  pockets,  has  covered  with  hungry 
plebeian  growths,  which  fight  for  life  with  each 
other,  until  some  of  them  get  broad-leaved  and  suc- 
culent, and  you  have  a  coarse  vegetable  tapestry 
which  Raphael  would  have  disdained  to  spread  over 
the  foreground  of  his  masterpiece.  The  Professor 
pretends  that  he  found  such  a  one  on  Charles  Street, 
which,  in  its  dare-devil  impudence  of  rough-and- 
tumble  vegetation,  beat  the  pretty -behaved  flower- 
beds of  the  Public  Garden  as  ignominiously  as  a 
group  of  young  tatterdemalions  playing  pitch-and- 

[  187  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S  BOSTON 

toss  beats  a  row  of  Sunday-school-boys  with  their 
teacher  at  their  head. 

It  was  on  the  Common  that  we  were  walking.  The 
mall,  or  boulevard  of  our  Common,  you  know,  has 
various  branches  leading  from  it  in  different  direc- 
tions. One  of  these  runs  down  opposite  Joy  Street 
southward  across  the  whole  length  of  the  Common 
to  Boylston  Street.  We  called  it  the  long  path,  and 
were  fond  of  it. 

I  felt  very  weak,  indeed  (though  of  a  tolerably 
robust  habit),  as  we  came  opposite  the  head  of  this 
path  on  that  morning.  I  think  I  tried  to  speak 
twice  without  making  myself  distinctly  audible. 
At  last  I  got  out  the  question,  —  Will  you  take  the 
long  path  with  me?  —  Certainly,  —  said  the  school- 
mistress, —  with  much  pleasure.  —  Think,  —  I  said, 
before  you  answer:  if  you  take  the  long  path  with 
me  now,  I  shall  interpret  it  that  we  are  to  part 
no  more!  The  schoolmistress  stepped  back  with  a 
sudden  movement,  as  if  an  arrow  had  struck  her. 

One  of  the  long  granite  blocks  used  as  seats  was 
hard  by,  the  one  you  may  still  see  close  by  the  Ging- 
ko-tree.— Pray,  sit  down, — I  said. — No,  no,  she  an- 
swered softly,  —  I  will  walk  the  long  path  with  you ! 


CHAPTER  X 
FAREWELL,  BOSTON 


I  come  not  here  your  morning  hour  to  sadden, 
A  limping  pilgrim,  leaning  on  his  staff,  — 
I,  who  have  never  deemed  it  sin  to  gladden 
This  vale  of  sorrows  with  a  wholesome  laugh. 

If  words  of  mine  another's  gloom  has  brightened, 
Through  my  dumb  lips  the  heaven-sent  message  came: 
If  hand  of  mine  another's  task  has  lightened, 
It  felt  the  guidance  that  it  dares  not  claim. 

Time  claims  his  tribute;  silence  now  is  golden; 

Let  me  not  vex  the  too  long  suffering  lyre; 

Though  to  your  love  untiring  still  beholden, 

The  curfew  tells  me  —  cover  up  the  fire. 

And  now  with  grateful  smile  and  accents  cheerful, 

And  warmer  heart  than  look  or  word  can  tell, 

In  simplest  phrase  —  these  traitorous  eyes  are  tearful  - 

Thanks,  Brothers,  Sisters,  —  Children,  —  and  farewell. 


CHAPTER    X 

FAREWELL,  BOSTON 

[The  Doctor  glided  gently  and  peacefully  into  the 
period  of  old  age.  He  had  worked  hard  but  had  never 
been  forced  to  over- work;  he  had  been  free  from  any 
overwhelming  anxieties;  he  had  always  enjoyed  a  com- 
fortable amount  of  worldly  goods,  and  had  been  ever 
surrounded  by  congenial  friends  and  agreeable  family 
ties.   In  the  words  of  his  biographer: 

"  He  had  strolled  pleasantly  and  at  his  own  pace  along 
the  side  paths,  by  the  enchanting  hedgerows,  quite 
apart  from  the  hurly-burly  of  the  highway  where  the 
throng  hurried  and  jostled  along,  the  millionaires  and 
the  beggars  crowding,  hustling,  and  cursing  each  other. 
Thus  leaving  this  procession,  which  could  find  no  leisure 
for  enjoyment,  to  push  and  tumble  along  as  best  it 
might,  he  meantime  advanced  pleasantly  falling  in  now 
and  then  with  good  company,  moving  through  the 
changing  shade,  or  sunshine,  enjoying  all  the  possible 
beauty  and  peacefulness  of  the  journey  through  life. 
In  this  way  he  became  old,  and  hardly  knew  it  — 
would  have  forgotten  it  for  a  long  while,  perhaps,  had 
he  been  a  less  close  observer  of  facts,  or  if  others  had 
not  called  his  attention  to  the  climbing  figures  of  the 
anniversaries."] 

I  must  not  forget  that  a  new  generation  of  readers 
has  come  into  being  since  I  have  been  writing  for 

[  191  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S  BOSTON 
the  public,  and  that  a  new  generation  of  aspiring 
and  brilliant  authors  has  grown  into  general  recog- 
nition. The  dome  of  Boston  State  House,  which  is 
the  centre  of  my  little  universe  was  glittering  in  its 
fresh  golden  pellicle  before  I  had  reached  the  scrip- 
tural boundary  of  life.  It  has  lost  its  lustre  now, 
and  the  years  which  have  dulled  its  surface  have 
whitened  the  dome  of  that  fragile  structure  in  which 
my  consciousness  holds  the  session  of  its  faculties. 
Time  is  not  to  be  cheated. 

Look  here!  There  are  crowds  of  people  whirled 
through  our  streets  on  these  new-fashioned  cars,  with 
their  witch-broomsticks  overhead,  —  if  they  don't 
come  from  Salem,  they  ought  to,  —  and  not  more 
than  one  in  a  dozen  of  these  fish-eyed  bipeds  thinks 
or  cares  a  nickel's  worth  about  the  miracle  which  is 
wrought  for  their  convenience.  .  .  .  What  do  they 
know  or  care  about  this  last  revelation  of  the  omni- 
present spirit  of  the  material  universe?  We  ought 
to  go  down  on  our  knees  when  one  of  these  mighty 
caravans,  car  after  car,  spins  by  us,  under  the  mys- 
tic impulse  which  seems  to  know  not  whether  its 
train  is  loaded  or  empty.  ...  I  am  thankful  that  in 
an  age  of  cynicism  I  have  not  lost  my  reverence. 

[  192  ] 


FAREWELL,  BOSTON 

Perhaps  you  would  wonder  to  see  how  some  very 
common  sights  impress  me.  .  .  .  And  now,  before 
this  new  manifestation  of  that  form  of  cosmic  vital- 
ity which  we  call  electricity,  I  feel  like  taking  the 
posture  of  the  peasants  listening  to  the  Angelus. 

All  reflecting  persons  must  recognize,  in  looking 
back  over  a  long  life,  how  largely  their  creeds,  their 
course  of  life,  their  wisdom  and  unwisdom,  their 
whole  characters,  were  shaped  by  the  conditions 
which  surrounded  them.  Little  children  they  came 
from  the  hands  of  the  Father  of  all;  little  children  in 
their  helplessness,  their  ignorance,  they  are  going 
back  to  him.  They  cannot  help  feeling  that  they 
are  to  be  transferred  from  the  rude  embrace  of  the 
boisterous  elements  to  arms  that  will  receive  them 
tenderly.  Poor  planetary  foundlings,  they  have 
known  hard  treatment  at  the  hands  of  the  brute 
forces  of  nature,  from  the  control  of  which  they  are 
soon  to  be  set  free. 

I  see  no  corner  of  the  universe  which  the  Father 
has  wholly  deserted.  The  forces  of  Nature  bruise 
and  wound  our  bodies,  but  an  artery  no  sooner 
bleeds  than  the  Divine  hand  is  placed  upon  it  to 

[  193  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

stay  the  flow.  A  wound  is  no  sooner  made  than  the 
healing  process  is  set  on  foot.  Pain  reaches  a  certain 
point  and  insensibility  comes  on,  —  for  fainting  is 
the  natural  anodyne  of  curable  briefs,  as  death  is 
the  remedy  of  those  which  are  intolerable. 

I  am  satisfied,  that,  as  we  grow  older,  we  learn 
to  look  upon  our  bodies  more  and  more  as  a  tempor- 
ary possession  and  less  and  less  as  identified  with 
ourselves.  In  early  years,  while  the  child  "feels  its 
life  in  every  limb,"  it  lives  in  the  body  and  for  the 
body  to  a  very  great  extent.  It  ought  to  be  so. 

I  am  living  as  agreeably  as  possible  under  my  con- 
ditions. ...  But  in  the  mean  time  my  sight  grows 
dimmer,  my  hearing  grows  harder,  and  I  don't 
doubt  my  mind  grows  duller.  But  you  remember 
what  Landor  said :  that  he  was  losing  his  mind,  but 
he  did  n't  mind  that,  —  he  was  losing  or  had  lost 
his  teeth  —  that  was  his  chief  affliction.  Between 
nature  and  art  I  get  on  very  well  in  the  dental  way, 
—  as  for  the  mental,  I  will  not  answer. 

Don't  you  stay  at  home  of  evenings?  Don't  you  love  a  cush- 
ioned seat 

In  a  corner,  by  the  fireside,  with  your  slippers  on  your 
feet? 

[  194  ] 


The  Gardiner  Greene  House,  Pemberton  Square 


FAREWELL,  BOSTON 

Don't  you  wear  warm,  fleecy  flannels?  Don't  you  muffle  up 

your  throat? 
Don't  you  like  to  have  one  help  you  when  you  're  putting  on 

your  coat? 

Don't  you  like  old  books  you've  dog's-eared,  you  can't  re- 
member when? 
Don't  you  call  it  late  at  nine  o'clock  and  go  to  bed  at  ten? 
How  many  cronies  can  you  count  of  all  you  used  to  know 
Who  called  you  by  your  christian  name  some  fifty  years  ago? 

An  old  tree  can  put  forth  a  leaf  as  green  as  that 
of  a  young  one,  and  looks  at  it  with  a  pleasant  sort 
of  surprise,  I  suppose,  as  I  do  at  my  saucily  juvenile 
productions. 

I  think  I  do  not  feel  any  considerable  change  in 
my  general  condition,  —  my  sight  grows  dimmer,  of 
course,  —  but  very  slowly.  I  have  worn  the  same 
glasses  for  twenty  years.  I  am  getting  somewhat 
hard  of  hearing,  —  "slightly  deaf,"  the  newspapers 
inform  me,  with  that  polite  attention  to  a  personal 
infirmity  which  is  characteristic  of  the  newspaper 
press.  The  dismantling  of  the  human  organism  is  a 
gentle  process,  more  obvious  to  those  who  look  on 
than  to  those  who  are  the  subjects  of  it.  It  brings 
some  solaces  with  it:  deafness  is  a  shield;  incapacity 
unloads  our  shoulders;  and  imbecility,  if  it  must 
come,  is  always  preceded  by  the  administration  of 

[  195  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

one  of  Nature's  opiates.  It  is  a  good  deal  that  we 
older  writers,  whose  names  are  often  mentioned 
together,  should  have  passed  the  Psalmist's  limit 
of  active  life,  and  yet  have  an  audience  when  we 
speak  or  sing. 

I  wish  you  all  the  blessings  you  have  asked  for 
me  —  how  much  better  you  deserve  them ! 

There  is  all  the  difference  in  the  world  in  the  men- 
tal as  in  the  bodily  constitution  of  different  individ- 
uals. Some  must  "take  in  sail"  sooner,  some  later. 
We  can  get  a  useful  lesson  from  the  American  and 
English  elms  on  our  Common.  The  American  elms 
are  quite  bare,  and  have  been  so  for  weeks.  They 
know  very  well  that  they  are  going  to  have  storms 
to  wrestle  with;  they  have  not  forgotten  the  gales  of 
September  and  the  tempests  of  the  late  autumn  and 
early  winter.  It  is  a  hard  fight  they  are  going  to 
have,  and  they  strip  their  coats  off  and  roll  up  their 
shirt-sleeves,  and  show  themselves  bare-armed  and 
ready  for  the  contest.  The  English  elms  are  of  a 
more  robust  build,  and  stand  defiant,  with  all  their 
summer  clothing  about  their  sturdy  frames.  They 
may  yet  have  to  learn  a  lesson  from  their  American 
cousins,  for  notwithstanding  their  compact  and 

[  196  1 


FAREWELL,  BOSTON 

solid  structure  they  go  to  pieces  in  the  great  winds 
just  as  ours  do.  We  must  drop  much  of  our  foliage 
before  winter  is  upon  us.  We  must  take  in  sail  and 
throw  over  cargo,  if  necessary,  to  keep  us  afloat. 

There  are  no  times  like  the  old  times,  —  they  shall  never  be 

forgot ! 
There  is  no  place  like  the  old  place,  —  keep  green  the  dear  old 

spot! 
There  are  no  friends  like  our  old  friends,  —  may  Heaven 

prolong  their  lives! 
There  are  no  loves  like  our  old  loves,  —  God  bless  our  loving 

wives ! 

At  fifty,  your  vessel  is  staunch,  and  you  are  on 
deck  with  the  rest,  in  all  weathers.  At  sixty,  the 
vessel  still  floats,  and  you  are  in  the  cabin.  At 
seventy,  you,  with  a  few  fellow-passengers,  are  on  a 
raft.  At  eighty,  you  are  on  a  spar,  to  which,  possi- 
bly, one,  or  two,  or  three  friends  of  about  your  own 
age  are  still  clinging.  After  that,  you  must  expect 
soon  to  find  yourself  alone,  if  you  are  still  floating, 
with  only  a  life-preserver  to  keep  your  old  white- 
bearded  chin  above  water. 

My  friends  —  contemporary  ones  —  are  all  gone 
pretty  much.  James  Clarke  was  the  one  I  miss 
most.  William  Amory  I  saw  a  good  deal  of  in  these 
last  years.  Asa  Gray  I  liked  exceedingly,  though  I 

[  197  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 
did  not  see  him  very  often.  Herman  Inches  I  go  to 
see  pretty  often,  but  he  is  gradually  wearing  out, 
after  outliving  almost  everybody  who  expected  to 
go  to  his  funeral. 

You  make  fun  of  our  Class  meeting  [1889].  It  was 
not  very  exhilarating,  but  we  got  through  it  pretty 
well.  Two  who  were  there  last  year  were  missing. 
.  .  .  There  were  six  of  us.  .  .  Stickney  and  Smith 
were  both  stone  deaf,  and  kept  up  some  kind  of  tele- 
phony with  each  other.  I  read  them  a  poem  in  which 
were  two  lines  that  I  can  remember:  "So  ends  'The 
Boys'  a  lifelong  play;"  and  "Farewell!  I  let  the 
curtain  fall. "  The  drama  was  really  carried  out  very 
well.  All  kinds  of  characters  were  represented,  and 
we  appeared  on  the  stage  in  larger  numbers  for  a 
longer  time  than  any  class  of  our  generation.  .  .  . 

How  strange  it  is  to  see  the  sons  of  our  contem- 
poraries getting  gray,  and  their  grandchildren  get- 
ting engaged  and  married.  I  take  the  labuntur  anni 
without  many  eheus.  The  truth  is,  Nature  has  her 
anodynes,  and  Old  Age  carries  one  of  them  in  his 
pocket.  It  is  some  kind  of  narcotic;  it  dulls  our  sen- 
sibility; it  tends  to  make  us  sleepy  and  indifferent; 
and,  in  lightening  our  responsibilities  (which  Presi- 
dent Walker  spoke  of  as  one  of  our  chief  blessings), 

[  198  ] 


FAREWELL,  BOSTON 

rids  us  of  many  of  our  worries.  I  don't  think  you 
grow  old,  and  in  many  ways  I  do  not  feel  as  if  I  did. 
But  sight  and  hearing  won't  listen  to  any  nonsense. 

The  class  of  1829  at  Harvard  College,  of  which  I 
am  a  member,  graduated,  according  to  the  triennial, 
fifty-nine  in  number.  It  is  sixty  years,  then,  since 
that  time;  and  as  they  were,  on  an  average,  about 
twenty  years  old,  those  who  survive  must  have 
reached  fourscore  years.  Of  the  fifty-nine  graduates 
ten  only  are  living,  or  were  at  the  last  accounts ;  one 
in  six  very  nearly.  In  the  first  ten  years  after  gradu- 
ation, our  third  decade,  when  we  were  between 
twenty  and  thirty  years  old,  we  lost  three  members, 
—  about  one  in  twenty;  between  the  ages  of  thirty 
and  forty,  eight  died,  —  one  in  seven  of  those  the 
decade  began  with;  from  forty  to  fifty,  only  two,  — 
or  one  in  twenty -four;  from  fifty  to  sixty,  eight,  — 
or  one  in  six;  from  sixty  to  seventy,  fifteen,  — or 
two  out  of  every  five;  from  seventy  to  eighty, 
twelve,  —  or  one  in  two.  The  greatly  increased 
mortality  which  began  with  the  seventh  decade 
went  on  steadily  increasing.  At  sixty  we  come 
"within  range  of  the  rifle-pits,"  to  borrow  an  ex- 
pression from  my  friend  Weir  Mitchell. 

[  199  ] 


DR.   HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

At  the  last  annual  dinner  every  effort  was  made 
to  bring  all  the  survivors  of  the  class  together.  Six 
of  the  ten  living  members  were  there,  —  six  old 
men  in  place  of  the  thirty  or  forty  classmates  who 
surrounded  the  long,  oval  table  in  1859,  when  I 
asked,  "Has  any  old  fellow  got  mixed  with  the 
boys?"  —  "boys"  whose  tongues  were  as  the  vi- 
brating leaves  of  the  forest;  whose  talk  was  like  the 
voice  of  many  waters;  whose  laugh  was  as  the 
breaking  of  mighty  waves  upon  the  seashore. 
Among  the  six  at  our  late  dinner  was  our  first 
scholar,  and  the  thorough-bred  and  accomplished 
engineer  who  held  the  city  of  Lawrence  in  his  brain 
before  it  spread  itself  out  along  the  banks  of  the 
Merrimac.  There,  too,  was  the  poet  whose  National 
Hymn,  "My  Country,  't  is  of  thee,"  is  known  to 
more  millions,  and  dearer  to  many  of  them,  than  all 
the  other  songs  written  since  the  Psalms  of  David. 
Four  of  our  six  were  clergymen;  the  engineer  and 
the  present  writer  completed  the  list.  Were  we 
melancholy?  Did  we  talk  of  graveyards  and  epi- 
taphs? No,  —  we  remembered  our  dead  tenderly, 
serenely,  feeling  deeply  what  we  had  lost  in  those 
who  but  a  little  while  ago  were  with  us.  .  .  .  We  were 
not  the  moping,  complaining  graybeards  that  many 

[  200  ] 


FAREWELL,  BOSTON 

might  suppose  we  must  have  been.  We  had  been 
favored  with  the  blessing  of  long  life.  We  had  seen 
the  drama  well  into  its  fifth  act.  The  sun  still 
warmed  us,  the  air  was  still  grateful  and  life-giving. 

Well,  let  the  present  do  its  best, 

We  trust  our  Maker  for  the  rest, 

As  on  our  way  we  plod; 

Our  souls,  full  dressed  in  fleshly  suits, 

Love  air  and  sunshine,  flowers  and  fruits, 

The  daisies  better  than  their  roots 

Beneath  the  grassy  sod. 

Not  bed-time  yet!  The  full-blown  flower 
Of  all  the  year  —  this  evening  hour  — 
With  friendship's  flame  is  bright; 
Life  is  still  sweet,  the  heavens  are  fair, 
Though  fields  are  brown  and  woods  are  bare, 
And  many  a  joy  is  left  to  share 
Before  we  say  Good-night! 

I  have  sometimes  thought  that  I  loved  so  well  the 
accidents  of  this  temporary  terrestrial  residence,  its 
endeared  localities,  its  precious  affections,  its  pleas- 
ing variety  of  occupation,  its  alternations  of  excited 
and  gratified  curiosity,  and  whatever  else  comes 
nearest  to  the  longings  of  the  natural  man,  that  I 
might  be  wickedly  homesick  in  a  far-off  spiritual 
realm  where  such  toys  are  done  with. 

[  201  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S  BOSTON 
In  whatever  world  I  may  find  myself,  I  hope  I 
shall  always  love  our  poor  little  spheroid,  so  long  my 
home,  which  some  kind  angel  may  point  out  to  me 
as  a  gilded  globule  swimming  in  the  sunlight  far 
away.  After  walking  the  streets  of  pure  gold  in  the 
New  Jerusalem,  might  not  one  like  a  short  vacation, 
to  visit  the  well-remembered  green  fields  and  flow- 
ery meadows? 

[Throughout  his  life  Dr.  Holmes  was  fond  of  church- 
going,  and  he  was  a  regular  attendant  at  the  services  in 
King's  Chapel.] 

I  am  a  regular  church-goer.  I  should  go  for  va- 
rious reasons,  if  I  did  not  love  it;  but  I  am  happy 
enough  to  find  great  pleasure  in  the  midst  of  devout 
multitudes,  whether  I  can  accept  all  their  creeds  or 
not.  One  place  of  worship  comes  nearer  than  the 
rest  to  my  ideal  standard,  and  to  this  it  was  that  I 
carried  our  young  girl.  .  .  . 

My  natural  Sunday  home  is  King's  Chapel,  where 
a  good  and  amiable  and  acceptable  preacher  tries 
to  make  us  better,  with  a  purity  and  sincerity  which 
we  admire  and  love.  In  that  church  I  have  wor- 
shipped for  half  a  century,  —  there  I  listened  to  Dr. 
Greenwood,  to  Ephraim  Peabody,  often  to  James 
Walker,  and  to  other  holy  and  wise  men  who  have 

[  202  ] 


King's  Chapel,  1860 


FAREWELL,  BOSTON 

served  from  time  to  time.  There  on  the  fifteenth  of 
June  1840, 1  was  married,  there  my  children  were  all 
christened,  from  that  church  the  dear  companion  of 
so  many  blessed  years  was  buried.  In  her  seat  I  must 
sit,  and  through  its  door  I  hope  to  be  carried  to  my 
resting-place. 

Is  it  a  weanling's  weakness  for  the  past 

That  in  the  stormy,  rebel-breeding  town, 
Swept  clean  of  relics  by  the  levelling  blast, 
Still  keeps  our  gray  old  chapel's  name  of  "Bang's," 
Still  to  its  outworn  symbols  fondly  clings,  — 
Its  unchurched  mitres  and  its  empty  crown? 

All  vanished!  It  were  idle  to  complain 

That  ere  the  fruits  shall  come  the  flowers  must  fall; 
Yet  somewhat  we  have  lost  amidst  our  gain, 
Some  rare  ideals  time  may  not  restore,  — 
The  charm  of  courtly  breeding,  seen  no  more, 

And  reverence,  dearest  ornament  of  all. 

The  middle-aged  and  young  men  have  left  com- 
paratively faint  impressions  in  my  memory,  but 
how  grandly  the  procession  of  the  old  clergymen 
who  filled  our  pulpit  from  time  to  time,  and  passed 
the  day  under  our  roof,  marches  before  my  closed 
eyes. 

The  pulpit  used  to  lay  down  the  law  to  the  pews; 
at  the  present  time,  it  is  of  more  consequence  what 

[  203  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

the  pews  think  than  what  the  minister  does,  for  the 
obvious  reason  that  the  pews  can  change  their  min- 
ister, and  often  do,  whereas  the  minister  cannot 
change  the  pews,  or  can  do  so  only  to  a  very  limited 
extent.  The  preacher's  garment  is  cut  according  to 
the  pattern  of  his  hearers,  for  the  most  part. 

It  is  natural  enough  to  cling  to  life.  We  are  used 
to  atmospheric  existence,  and  can  hardly  conceive 
of  ourselves  except  as  breathing  creatures.  We  have 
never  tried  any  other  mode  of  being,  or,  if  we  have, 
we  have  forgotten  all  about  it,  whatever  Words- 
worth's grand  ode  may  tell  us  we  may  remember. 
Heaven  itself  must  be  an  experiment  to  every  hu- 
man soul  which  shall  find  itself  there.  It  may  take 
time  for  an  earth-born  saint  to  become  acclimated 
to  the  celestial  ether,  —  that  is,  if  time  can  be  said 
to  exist  for  a  disembodied  spirit.  We  are  all  sen- 
tenced to  capital  punishment  for  the  crime  of  living, 
and  though  the  condemned  cell  of  our  earthly  exis- 
tence is  but  a  narrow  and  bare  dwelling-place,  we 
have  adjusted  ourselves  to  it,  and  made  it  tolerably 
comfortable  for  the  little  while  we  are  to  be  confined 
in  it.  The  prisoner  of  Chillon 

"regained  [his]  freedom  with  a  sigh,"  — 
[  204  1 


FAREWELL,  BOSTON 

and  a  tender-hearted  mortal  might  be  pardoned  for 
looking  back,  like  the  poor  lady  who  was  driven 
from  her  dwelling-place  by  fire  and  brimstone,  at 
the  home  he  was  leaving  for  the  "undiscovered 
country." 

The  mysteries  of  our  lives  and  ourselves  resolve 
themselves  very  slowly  with  the  progress  of  years. 
Every  decade  lifts  the  curtain,  which  hides  us  from 
ourselves,  a  little  further,  and  lets  a  new  light  upon 
what  was  dark  and  unintelligible. 

How  few  things  there  are  that  do  not  change  their 
whole  aspect  in  the  course  of  a  single  generation! 
The  landscape  around  us  is  wholly  different.  Even 
the  outlines  of  the  hills  that  surround  us  are  changed 
by  the  creeping  of  the  villages  with  their  spires  and 
school-houses  up  their  sides.  The  sky  remains  the 
same,  and  the  ocean.  A  few  old  churchyards  look 
very  much  as  they  used  to,  except,  of  course  in  Bos- 
ton, where  the  gravestones  have  been  rooted  up  and 
planted  in  rows  with  walks  between  them,  to  the 
utter  disgrace  and  ruin  of  our  most  venerated  ceme- 
taries.  The  Registry  of  Deeds  and  the  Probate 
Office  show  us  the  same  old  folios,  where  we  can 

[  205  ] 


DR.   HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

read  our  grandfather's  title  to  his  estate  (if  we  had  a 
grandfather  and  he  happened  to  own  anything)  and 
see  how  many  pots  and  kettles  there  were  in  his 
kitchen  by  the  inventory  of  his  personal  property. 
.  .  .  The  graveyard  and  the  stage  are  pretty  much 
the  only  places  where  you  can  expect  to  find  your 
friends  as  you  left  them  five  and  twenty  or  fifty 
years  ago. 

The  mossy  marbles  rest 
On  the  lips  that  he  has  prest 

In  their  bloom, 
And  the  names  he  loved  to  hear 
Have  been  carved  for  many  a  year 

On  the  tomb. 

And  if  I  should  live  to  be 
The  last  leaf  upon  the  tree 

In  the  spring, 
Let  them  smile,  as  I  do  now, 
At  the  old  forsaken  bough 

Where  I  cling. 

This  is  the  season  for  old  churchyards.  .  .  .  The 
Boston  ones  have  been  ruined  by  uprooting  and 
transplanting  the  gravestones.  But  the  old  Cam- 
bridge burial-ground  is  still  inviolate;  as  are  the  one 
in  the  edge  of  Watertown,  beyond  Mount  Auburn, 
and  the  most  interesting  in  some  respects  of  all,  that 

[  206  ] 


FAREWELL,  BOSTON 

at  Dorchester,  where  they  show  great  stones  laid  on 
the  early  graves  to  keep  the  wolves  from  acting  like 
hyenas.  I  make  a  pilgrimage  to  it  from  time  to  time 
to  see  that  little  Submit  sleeps  in  peace,  and  read 
the  tender  lines  that  soothed  the  heart  of  the  Pil- 
grim mother  two  hundred  years  ago  and  more: 

"  Submit  submitted  to  her  heavenly  king 
Being  a  flower  of  that  aeternal  spring, 
Near  3  yeares  old  she  dyed  in  heaven  to  waite 
The  yeare  was  sixteen  hundred  48." 

Mount  Auburn  wants  a  century  to  hallow  it,  but 
is  beginning  to  soften  with  time  a  little.  Many  of 
us  remember  it  as  yet  unbroken  by  the  spade,  be- 
fore Miss  Hannah  Adams  went  and  lay  down  there 
under  the  turf,  alone,  —  "first  tenant  of  Mount 
Auburn."  The  thunder-storms  do  not  frighten  the 
poor  little  woman  now  as  they  used  to  in  those 
early  days  when  I  remember  her  among  the  living. 
There  are  many  names  of  those  whom  we  have 
loved  and  honored  on  the  marbles  of  that  fair 
cemetery. 

Perhaps  you  sometimes  wander  in  through  the 
iron  gates  of  the  Copp's  Hill  burial-ground.  You 
love  to  stroll  round  among  the  graves  that  crowd 

[  207  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

each  other  in  the  thickly  peopled  soil  of  that  breezy 
summit.  You  love  to  lean  on  the  freestone  slab 
which  lies  over  the  bones  of  the  Mathers,  —  to  read 
the  epitaph  of  stout  William  Clark,  "Despiser  of 
Sorry  Persons  and  little  Actions,"  to  stand  by  the 
stone  grave  of  sturdy  Daniel  Malcolm  and  look  upon 
the  old  splintered  slab  that  tells  the  old  rebel's 
story,  —  to  kneel  by  the  triple  stone  that  says  how 
the  three  Worthylakes,  father,  mother,  and  young 
daughter,  died  on  the  same  day  and  lie  buried  there; 
a  mystery;  the  subject  of  a  moving  ballad,  by  the 
late  Benjamin  Franklin,  —  as  may  be  seen  in  his 
autobiography,  which  will  explain  the  secret  of  the 
triple  gravestone;  though  the  old  philosopher  has 
made  a  mistake,  unless  the  stone  is  wrong. 

The  Little  Gentleman  lies  where  he  longed  to  lie, 
among  the  old  names  and  the  old  bones  of  the  old 
Boston  people.  At  the  foot  of  his  resting-place  is 
the  river,  alive  with  the  wings  and  antennae  of  its 
colossal  water-insects;  over  opposite  are  the  great 
war-ships,  and  the  heavy  guns,  which,  when  they 
roar,  shake  the  soil  in  which  he  lies;  and  in  the 
steeple  of  Christ  Church,  hard  by,  are  the  sweet 
chimes  which  are  the  Boston  boy's  Ranz  des  Vaches, 
whose  echoes  follow  him  all  the  world  over. 

[  208  ] 


The  Old  North  Church,  Salem  Street 


FAREWELL,  BOSTON 
How  old  was  I,  ...  I  the  recipient  of  all  these 
favors  and  honors?  I  had  cleared  the  eight  barred 
gate,  which  few  come  in  sight  of,  and  fewer,  far 
fewer,  go  over,  a  year  before.  I  was  a  trespasser  on 
the  domain  belonging  to  another  generation.  .  .  . 
After  that  leap  over  the  tall  barrier,  it  looks  like  a 
kind  of  impropriety  to  keep  on  as  if  one  were  still  of 
a  reasonable  age.  Sometimes  it  seems  to  me  almost 
of  the  nature  of  a  misdemeanor  to  be  wandering 
about  in  the  preserve  which  the  fleshless  gate- 
keeper guards  so  jealously. 

[Dr.  Holmes  was  able  to  take  his  usual  walks  until 
within  a  few  days  of  his  death.  He  had  failed  gently 
and  almost  imperceptibly  and  seemingly  in  accordance 
with  his  own  word-pictures  of  Nature's  gradual  relin- 
quishment of  her  physical  possessions.  He  was  up  and 
about  the  house  on  the  last  day,  passing  away  peace- 
fully in  his  chair  on  Oct.  7,  1894.  Two  days  later  he 
was  buried  from  King's  Chapel.  In  his  last  letters  to 
Whittier,  Dr.  Holmes  sets  forth  his  cheerful  and  hope- 
ful view  of  old  age,  and  affectionately  clasps  hands  with 
the  dear  friend  in  whose  company  he  is  "nearing  the 
snow-line":] 

My  dear  Whittier,  —  Here  I  am  at  your  side 
among  the  octogenarians.  At  seventy  we  are  ob- 
jects of  veneration,  at  eighty  of  curiosity,  at  ninety 

[  209  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

of  wonder;  and  if  we  reach  a  hundred  we  are  candi- 
dates for  a  side-show  attached  to  Barnum's  great 
exhibition.  .  .  . 

Old  age  at  best  is  lonely,  and  the  process  of  chang- 
ing one's  whole  suit  of  friends  and  acquaintances 
has  its  moments  when  one  feels  naked  and  shivers. 

I  have  this  forenoon  answered  a  letter  from  the 
grandson  of  a  classmate  and  received  a  visit  from 
the  daughter  of  another  classmate,  the  "Sweet 
Singer"  of  the  class  of  '29.  So  you  see  I  have  been 
contemplating  the  leafless  boughs  and  the  brown 
turf  in  the  garden  of  my  memory. 

Not  less  do  I  prize  my  newer  friendships. 

I  hope  dear  Whittier,  that  you  find  much  to  enjoy 
in  the  midst  of  all  the  lesser  trials  which  old  age 
must  bring  with  it.  You  have  kind  friends  all 
around  you,  and  the  love  and  homage  of  your  fel- 
low-countrymen as  few  have  enjoyed  them,  with 
the  deep  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  you  have 
earned  them,  not  merely  by  the  gifts  of  your  genius, 
but  by  the  noble  life  which  has  ripened  without  a 
flaw  into  a  grand  and  serene  old  age.  I  never  see 
my  name  coupled  with  yours,  as  it  often  is  now- 
adays, without  feeling  honored  by  finding  myself 

[  210  ] 


FAREWELL,  BOSTON 

in  such  company,  and  wishing  that  I  were  more 
worthy  of  it. 

[The  Doctor's  final  words  of  appreciation  offered  to 
his  friend  Whittier  may  well  be  re-echoed  on  his  own 
behalf,  for  they  were  as  applicable  to  the  one  who  ut- 
tered them,  as  to  him  to  whom  they  were  addressed  by 
the  fellow-octogenarian.] 

I  congratulate  you  upon  having  climbed  another 
glacier  and  crossed  another  crevasse  in  your  ascent 
of  the  white  summit  which  already  begins  to  see  the 
morning  twilight  of  the  coming  century.  A  life  so 
well  filled  as  yours  has  been  cannot  be  too  long  for 
your  fellow-men.  In  their  affections  you  are  secure, 
whether  you  are  with  them  here,  or  near  them  in 
some  higher  life  than  theirs.  I  hope  your  years  have 
not  become  a  burden,  so  that  you  are  tired  of  living. 
At  our  age  we  must  live  chiefly  in  the  past :  happy  is 
he  who  has  a  past  like  yours  to  look  back  upon.  .  .  . 
We  are  lonely,  very  lonely,  in  these  last  years. 
The  image  which  I  have  used  before  this  in  writing 
to  you  recurs  once  more  to  my  thought.  We  were 
on  deck  together  as  we  began  the  voyage  of  life  two 
generations  ago  .  .  .  the  craft  which  held  us  began 
going  to  pieces,  until  a  few  of  us  were  left  on  the 
raft  pieced  together  of  its  fragments.    And  now  the 

[  211  ] 


DR.   HOLMES'S   BOSTON 

raft  has  at  last  parted  and  you  and  I  are  left  cling- 
ing to  the  solitary  spar,  which  is  all  that  still  remains 
afloat  of  the  sunken  vessel.  .  .  .  Long  may  it  be 
before  you  leave  a  world  where  your  influence  has 
been  so  beneficent,  where  your  example  has  been 
such  an  inspiration,  where  you  are  so  truly  loved, 
and  where  your  presence  is  a  perpetual  benedic- 
tion. 

If  the  time  comes  when  you  must  lay  down  the 
fiddle  and  the  bow,  because  your  fingers  are  too 
stiff,  and  drop  the  ten-foot  sculls  because  your  arms 
are  too  weak,  and,  after  dallying  a  while  with  eye- 
glasses, come  at  last  to  the  undisguised  reality  of 
spectacles,  if  the  time  comes  when  the  fire  of  life  we 
spoke  of  has  burned  so  low  that  where  the  flames 
reverberated  there  is  only  the  sombre  stain  of  regret, 
and  where  its  coals  glowed,  only  the  white  ashes 
that  cover  the  embers  of  memory,  —  don't  let  your 
heart  grow  cold,  and  you  may  carry  cheerfulness 
and  love  with  you  into  the  teens  of  your  second 
century,  if  you  can  last  so  long. 

Dear  faithful  reader,  whose  patient  eyes  have 
followed  my  reports  through  these  long  months,  you 
and  I  are  about  to  part  company. 

[  212  ] 


FAREWELL,  BOSTON 

The  Play  is  over.  While  the  light 

Yet  lingers  in  the  darkening  hall, 
I  come  to  say  a  last  Good-night 

Before  the  final  Exeunt  all. 

We  gathered  once,  a  joyous  throng: 
The  jovial  toasts  went  gayly  round; 

With  jest,  and  laugh,  and  shout,  and  song, 
We  made  the  floors  and  walls  resound. 

We  come  with  feeble  steps  and  slow, 

A  little  band  of  four  or  five, 
Left  from  the  wrecks  of  long  ago, 

Still  pleased  to  find  ourselves  alive. 

Why  mourn  that  we,  the  favored  few 
Whom  grasping  Time  so  long  has  spared 

Life's  sweet  illusions  to  pursue, 

The  common  lot  of  age  have  shared? 

In  every  pulse  of  Friendship's  heart 
There  breeds  unfelt  a  throb  of  pain,  — 

One  hour  must  rend  its  links  apart, 

Though  years  on  years  have  forged  the  chain. 


So  ends  "The  Boys,"  —  a  lifelong  play. 

We  too  must  hear  the  Prompter's  call 
To  fairer  scenes  and  brighter  day : 

Farewell !  I  let  the  curtain  fall. 

The  curtain  has  now  fallen,  and  I  show  myself  a 
moment  before  it  to  thank  my  audience  and  say 

[  213  ] 


DR.  HOLMES'S  BOSTON 
farewell.  ...  I  hope  I  have  not  wholly  disappointed 
those  who  have  been  so  kind  to  my  predecessors. 
To  you,  Beloved,  who  have  never  failed  to  cut 
the  leaves  which  hold  my  record,  who  have  never 
nodded  over  its  pages,  who  have  never  hesitated  in 
your  allegiance,  who  have  greeted  me  with  unfailing 
smiles  and  part  from  me  with  unfeigned  regrets,  to 
you  I  look  my  last  adieu  as  I  bow  myself  out  of 
sight,  trusting  my  poor  efforts  to  your  always  kind 
remembrance. 

Slow  toiling  upward  from  the  misty  vale, 

I  leave  the  bright  enamelled  zones  below; 

No  more  for  me  their  beauteous  bloom  shall  glow, 
Their  lingering  sweetness  load  the  morning  gale; 
Few  are  the  slender  flowerets,  scentless,  pale, 

That  on  their  ice-clad  stems  all  trembling  blow 

Along  the  margin  of  unmelting  snow; 
Yet  with  unsaddened  voice  thy  verge  I  hail, 

White  realm  of  peace  above  the  flowering  line; 
Welcome  thy  frozen  domes,  thy  rocky  spires! 

O  'er  thee  undimmed  the  moon-girt  planets  shine, 
On  thy  majestic  altars  fade  the  fires 
That  filled  the  air  with  smoke  of  vain  desires, 

And  all  the  unclouded  blue  of  heaven  is  thine ! 

THE  END 


THIS  EDITION  CONSISTS  OF 
SEVEN  HUNDRED  AND  FIFTY 
NUMBERED  COPIES  OF  WHICH 
THIS    IS    NUMBER  fJT 


(31  be  fttoer?t&e  j&reiM 

CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 

U    .    S    .   A 


5»34    017 


